


Invisible Once More

by chappysmom



Series: Invisible [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen, Magical Realism, Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:53:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chappysmom/pseuds/chappysmom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty is back, and this time, he's after John's gift. The only problem? He thinks it belongs to Sherlock. Yes, it's the Reichenbach episode, people!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I own nothing but my own plot--the world and characters belong to the BBC and Arthur Conan Doyle. I just like to play here! (Not beta'd or Brit-picked, so all errors are entirely my own.)

_\--Moriarty escaped._

John stared at Sherlock’s phone and swallowed hard. “So … this is bad, then,” he finally said.

“A bit not good, yes,” Sherlock agreed. He had waited until they were safely back at 221B and John had had a full night’s sleep before initiating this conversation. He was afraid there would be yelling and felt it would be best for that to be as private as possible.

There were still signs of strain in John’s face from his abduction in Baskerville, but the (rather excessive, Sherlock thought) 36 hours of sleep he’d gotten immediately afterward had done much to help him recover. John had still had the remains of a headache when they got off the train yesterday afternoon, but had ignored it. He hadn’t told Mrs. Hudson of any of the events in Baskerville. “Long journey,” was all he’d said to excuse his obvious exhaustion and the woman had merely tutted as he went directly to bed.

She could protest all she wanted, Sherlock thought with a surprising surge of fondness, but while she might not be their housekeeper, she was clearly more than just a landlady. She knew John had a particular fondness for her blueberry scones and had brought a plateful up for breakfast this morning. ( _“Just this once!”_ )

“So, what do we do?” John asked.

“I don’t know any more than you do at the moment,” Sherlock told him, taking his phone back and politely ignoring the tremor in John’s hand. 

“Mycroft?”

“No, he’s useless like always. He let the man escape, after all.” 

“Wonderful. So soon we’ll be looking back at … at Dartmoor as a pleasant holiday,” John said, trying to keep his tone light but failing.

“Don’t even think that,” Sherlock said. “For all we know, you’ll make it happen.”

John laughed. It was a strained laugh, it was true, but still. “I don’t think my brain can affect the future, Sherlock. I’m not a fortune teller.”

“Maybe you are, John. How can we know? It’s not like we’ve tested for it.”

“Very funny,” John told him. “Laugh all you like. I need more tea.”

That was the end of that conversation, but Sherlock could tell John was concerned. Considering Moriarty’s last act before being captured had been to threaten John with torture in a chair with painful similarities to the one John had been strapped to in Baskerville, concern was certainly reasonable. 

Still, post-Baskerville, their daily life went on much as usual. They went on cases together, and John worked (boring) hours at the surgery. Lestrade sometimes looked askance at John while at a crime scene, but otherwise things were much the same. 

There were experiments, of course. John threw himself into Sherlock’s new battery of tests with enthusiasm (spurred by the news of Moriarty, no doubt). As always, the results were remarkable. They had tested John’s ability to be invisible before, but now that they knew his gift was broader, they tested to see its limits. 

John’s gift affected perception, they decided—primarily a person’s perception of John. When he didn’t want to be noticed, he wasn’t—but if he needed to be, he would be. Sherlock would always remember the look on Donovan’s face when John somehow pulled her attention off Sherlock while she was in mid-rant. She had been going on and on, calling him a freak and other names (unprofessional of her, but not unusual), when suddenly she stopped mid-sentence and turned to look at John, calmly standing near the wall. He hadn’t moved a muscle, but for a few brief seconds was the center of attention, calmly raising an eyebrow in inquiry at the circle of faces suddenly staring at him. Then he released his … attention? … and everybody went back to what they had been doing, except that Donovan had lost her train of invective and just flounced off in a huff. Sherlock had caught the subtle wink John gave Lestrade and the other man’s gleam of amusement.

John Watson would never fail to amaze him.

The extra boost Dr. Stapleton’s scanner had given John’s gift had faded with his crippling headache, but John’s range was still broader. It was as if his sudden need in the lab had stretched his conception of what was possible, and his gift had expanded to fill in the possibilities. The scanner had somehow stimulated John’s brain to make it more productive, but he had worked so hard, it had caused it to essentially overheat. Now, he didn’t have that extra edge, but he had the memory of impossible feats being possible, and so was still able to do them.

It made no logical sense, which drove the scientist in Sherlock mad, all while making him utterly enthralled at the possibilities. Apparently, if John Watson thought he could do something, he _could_.

Sherlock didn’t know why that surprised him so much, really. Being capable and resourceful were two of the hallmarks of John’s character, along with his basic decency and kindness. (How else could he put up with Sherlock, after all? Because Sherlock did know he was difficult to get along with.) John had gone through his entire life making things work. He’d adapted to his frankly barbaric childhood by developing this extraordinary gift. He had become a doctor to heal and joined the army to protect people, and even when he lost that profession to a sniper’s bullet, he recreated his life to make things happen.

One thing was certain. Where John Watson was concerned, Sherlock was never bored.

 

#

 

“They’ll turn, Sherlock. They always turn. And they’ll turn on you,” John told him with that special, pay-attention-this-is-important tone he had sometimes. 

Sherlock just continued to examine the ridiculous hat with two fronts and ear flaps. “Why do you care? It’s not like it affects you.”

“Doesn’t affect …? Sherlock …” John’s voice trailed off as he verbally regrouped. “Of course it affects me, Sherlock. I’m your friend, remember? Not to mention helping you on cases. Not that the papers ever notice me.”

“Nobody ever notices you, John,” Sherlock told him with a smirk. “And you like it that way.”

“Being invisible is not the same as being ignored, Sherlock—but, well, yeah. I think it’s obvious that my first instinct is _not_ to be noticed. My subconscious thinks it’s safer that way—and it’s not necessarily wrong.”

Sherlock tossed the hat at John. “I don’t see the problem, then. You’re not being noticed which is as you like it, and I don’t care if I am, so it doesn’t matter.”

“That IS the problem, Sherlock,” John said, fielding the hat with one hand. “You don’t care. But people who read the papers do, and they’ll believe what the papers tell them. The press is notoriously fickle and if you’re not careful, they’re going to turn on you, and everyone else will follow.”

“Sheep,” Sherlock said with a dismissive shrug. “I thought you’d noticed, John, I don’t care about public opinion.”

“Oh, believe me, I’ve noticed. You don’t care what other people think about you as long as it doesn’t interfere with The Work, but they are not mutually exclusive, Sherlock. How long will you have work, do you suppose, if the press convinces everyone you’re a fraud?”

Sherlock blinked, wondering how he had missed that connection, but then shrugged again. “It won’t matter. That’s the difference between us, John. You worry too much about appearances.”

John just laughed. “Right. It’s the man who happily fades into the background who cares about appearances, not the one who swans about in his long coat, drawing all the attention and then being obnoxious about it. Just … be careful, right? If everyone decides you’re a fraud, it’s going to affect me, too. Maybe just take a small case this week?”

Sherlock stared for a moment but then sat in his chair. John was obviously over-reacting. For a man who could essentially become invisible, John was far too concerned with appearances. He should know better than anyone how meaningless they were. Perception couldn’t change reality, after all—not even with John’s gift. Just because people couldn’t see him, didn’t mean he wasn’t there. Sherlock had lived his whole life relying on his and only his opinion of his self-worth. He wasn’t going to start worrying about public opinion now.

Though, he admitted, John’s opinion mattered. And John was wiser about normal human interaction than he was. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to be unobtrusive for a bit. Hadn’t he protested at the very beginning that it was hard to do his job while being recognized wherever he went? Maybe he would look at some of Lestrade’s old cold cases until the fuss died down.

 

#

 

“You want me to do what?” 

John’s voice was icy.

“It’s simple, John. Just distract the guards so they don’t see me enter and then I’ll do the rest.”

“You want me to distract the guards at the _Tower of London_ after they’ve just been robbed so that you can sneak in … when you’ve already been _invited?_ I’m sorry, Sherlock, I hadn’t realized you went insane this morning. I should just count my blessings it was a mannequin swinging from the noose in the kitchen, I suppose?”

Sherlock started to open his mouth to protest or argue, but John just shook his head. “No, Sherlock. Absolutely not. You’re already invited, the guards are already upset enough, and I don’t feel like going to jail today. Nor do I want to try to explain any of this to your brother. Let’s just go in like normal people, shall we?”

Sherlock pouted but was forced to agree, though he grumbled about normal being boring as they climbed out of the taxi. In truth, though, he really wasn’t such an idiot. He hadn’t expected John to say anything else, he had just wanted to distract him. He had controlled it well, but Sherlock had seen the panic when Jim’s text message came through this morning, inviting them to play.

Sherlock had never felt less like playing. Up until the events at the pool, he had been diverted by Moriarty’s “game,” but since the man had turned it personal and attacked John? It was no longer fun. 

Nor could he afford to forget that dear Jim was holding a personal grudge at this point. Not only had they escaped him at the pool, they had out-maneuvered him in their second match which led to his arrest. There was no question he was going to come after them. The only question was after whom?

Was Moriarty going to focus on Sherlock like he had in the past? So that John was treated as a mere pawn? Or had he picked up on John’s special talent?

If Moriarty had had cameras in the pool, or in his office during that last stand-off, he might have recorded proof of John’s talent. John’s plan for rescuing Sherlock by hiding Mycroft’s team had been brilliant. Moriarty had not had a chance to see anything unusual before he’d been knocked unconscious—but what if he had video footage showing the team’s sudden appearance? The tell-tale blur of John’s gift in action? What if he knew about John’s gift and wanted to take advantage? A man like Moriarty would never be able to let that go. He would want to use it, subvert it, by any means necessary.

Without sufficient data, though, there was no way for Sherlock to know which way this would go. Either Moriarty would come after him with John as emotional leverage, or he would come after John by using Sherlock.

Pulling up his coat collar as they pulled up in front of the Tower, Sherlock got out of the cab. One way or the other, the game was on.

 

#

 

John drew a deep breath before getting out of the cab. 

Moriarty was back, and John wanted nothing to do with this. 

It was ridiculous, he knew. Life with Sherlock Holmes meant things were dangerous. It was part of what he loved about his life. The adrenalin rush. The sense of living on the edge. The risk.

And yet … he still felt raw from the events at Baskerville. He still had nightmares about that damned chair Dr. Stapleton had strapped him into—the one that was only slightly saner and less terrifying than the nightmare Moriarty had built just for him. 

He had no idea what to expect once they entered the Tower, but he had a feeling that it was about to change everything. 

No, he really wanted nothing to do with this. What happened to ordinary criminals? Couldn’t they just chase some knife-wielding maniac down a dark alley? Confront a banker who’d paid to have his wife strangled? A nice, ordinary serial-killer, perhaps? Really, he was feeling almost nostalgic for the serial-suicide killer cabbie.

Sherlock had paused at the entrance and was waiting for him and John pulled in another long breath. They’d come out on top each time they’d faced Moriarty before. He had to have faith that they would again.

He hated feeling this way. When had he ever allowed fear to keep him from doing anything that needed doing? If he started now, it just meant that Moriarty had won.

Besides, Sherlock needed him. What choice did he have?

 

#


	2. Chapter 2

It was obviously personal this time, John thought as he watched the video of Moriarty smashing the glass around the crown jewels. “Get Sherlock,” he’d written, with a smiley face. Oh, this was definitely personal.

Yet, it didn’t make sense. Moriarty had broken in, not only the Tower of London, but Pentonville Prison and the Bank of England … and then he’d just _waited_ to be arrested. He’d let them arrest him. Why?

Looking at Sherlock, John could see that he had no better idea than John did. Nor did he look any happier about being here. Not like last time Jim Moriarty had come out to play.

He wondered what that meant, that Sherlock wasn’t as excited this time?

But then, John was well aware that Sherlock had stopped having fun the minute Moriarty had strapped John into a bomb vest. Between Jim Moriarty and the events at Baskerville, Sherlock’s heart was a lot more vulnerable these days. 

To be fair, Sherlock had never willingly risked John’s life. His sanity, his police record, his blood-pressure, yes, those were all fair game. But Sherlock had never deliberately risked John’s life when he could avoid it. They had chased countless criminals with both of them at risk, but Sherlock tried to avoid putting John individually at risk. He’d tried to keep John safe with Soo Lin during the Blind Banker case. He had been horrified when John had been kidnapped by General Shan and John had seen the terror in his face when confronted by the CIA at Irene Adler’s—not to mention at The Pool. (Because yes, that memory deserved capitalization.) 

Add that to his reactions when John’s freedom had been threatened by Mycroft and Dr. Stapleton just for the sake of his gift? 

No, John knew Sherlock would do whatever he had to keep John safe. The problem was that John didn’t need to be protected—not any more than Sherlock, at least.

Sherlock needed to be reminded that John was no shrinking violet, cowering in the corner. He’d been in the army, and could take care of himself. Neither of them might want to face Moriarty right now, but what other choice was there? They’d known this was coming since Baskerville—since months before Baskerville. Moriarty wouldn’t stop until one of them had won for once and for all.

Having fun wasn’t important anymore. Defeating Moriarty was.

 

#

 

It was mystifying. Apparently Moriarty had broken into the Tower of London (not to mention Pentonville Prison and the Bank of England) solely for the purpose of being captured. He had _let_ himself be captured, but why? It made no sense.

It made plenty of headlines, though. The newspapers went wild and for a time, Sherlock was forced to admit that John might have had a point—the Press definitely could affect his work. With the crush outside the flat, he hadn’t had a real case in weeks. If it hadn’t been for John’s gift making shopping possible, they would have run out of tea days ago.

Sherlock had no illusions how the court case was going to go, though. Moriarty would never have let himself be put in that position if he hadn’t been confident that he would get off. The means weren’t important, just the result. Despite his own testimony, too, though Sherlock conceded that could have gone better. Perhaps this once John had been right about minding how he was perceived by others—most notably the judge.

No, Moriarty would not be going to jail. This was all just an elaborate ploy, but for what? Sherlock gave him the credit of acknowledging he was not like normal people. Moriarty played on a whole different level, for stakes that were unimaginable to the people twittering about in the press about the crime of the century (or whatever they were calling it this week). 

Moriarty had _wanted_ this attention. Far from keeping his hands clean, he couldn’t have made his participation more obvious. But, why?

Sherlock was interrupted by John’s call. As expected, Moriarty had been freed, found not guilty on all counts. (He would admit to a begrudging admiration for this. No matter how the man had accomplished it, considering the evidence against him, the verdict was quite an achievement. But then, he had always acknowledged that Jim Moriarty was a genius.)

He went to the kitchen and put the kettle on, arranging the tea things on a tray, then went back to the sitting room. He was just reaching for his violin when John came running up the stairs. “It’s a madhouse down there. I ducked out one of the side doors and managed to avoid most of the crowds, but it’s crazy. I’d be surprised there’s no press outside our door, except they’re probably all at the courthouse.”

Sherlock nodded and looked pointedly at the tea things. 

John raised his eyebrows. “What? We’re celebrating Moriarty’s release with the good tea service?”

“No, John, that’s for our guest. He should be here any minute.”

“Guest …” John gave a quick, sideways glance around the room. “You mean … here? He’s coming here?”

“You said it yourself, John. He’s going to come after me. There’s no reason we can’t be civil.” Sherlock almost smiled at the look of horror on John’s face. “He shouldn’t know that you’re here, though.”

John heaved a deep breath. “No,” he said. “Wait, why?”

“He’s coming here to talk to me, John, a parlay under a white flag, as it were. Witnesses will only distort matters. He can’t know you’re here.”

“That won’t be a problem, Sherlock,” John told him with a smirk.

“Well, no, it shouldn’t be, but … you’ve been seen before.”

John nodded. “Yes. You, Mycroft, and Irene Adler—and I fooled all of you when I concentrated hard enough. And don’t forget I snuck an entire covert team in under Moriarty’s nose. He may be a genius, but he’s not as observant as you lot. I think we’ll be all right.”

Sherlock tilted his head. That was actually a fair point. “Nevertheless, it would be best if you stayed out of the room—though I look forward to your observations afterwards.” 

He picked up his bow, and nodded toward the kitchen. “If you could just pour the water and bring the tray in before you go?”

John just stared for a moment and then heaved another long-suffering sigh and headed toward the kitchen.

 

#

 

The door had shut behind Moriarty and John hesitantly edged into the sitting room. Sherlock looked almost blank, stunned. “So, that went well, then,” John said.

Sherlock just nodded absently, twirling the impaled apple in his fingers, the I.O.U. already starting to brown. John looked at his expression and just stepped around him for the tea service. He considered the pot for a moment but decided the tea would be too cold, too … tainted … and carried the whole lot back to the kitchen. Sad, really. Sherlock had used the good tea and John hadn’t even been able to enjoy it.

He poured the tea down the drain, hearing the echo of Jim’s falling whistle in his head. ( _“Falling is just like flying, but with a more permanent destination._ ”) He had recorded the entire conversation on his phone, but couldn’t yet stomach the thought of watching. This wasn’t like last time. This time, Sherlock didn’t want to play.

Filling the kettle, he made fresh tea in ordinary mugs and carried one in to Sherlock. “So, what are you going to do?”

Sherlock just shook his head, though he took the tea, settling onto the couch already deep in thought. John nodded to himself and sat in his chair. He buried all his questions and forced himself to stay quiet, respecting Sherlock’s need for silence. This, obviously, was not the time to be distracting.

He did, though, forward the video of the conversation on to Mycroft. He didn’t know what was going on between the brothers, but John figured he would want to know that Moriarty was gunning very specifically for Sherlock. No matter what their differences, he couldn’t imagine Mycroft letting sibling squabbles getting in the way of keeping Sherlock safe. 

A glance at Sherlock showed his friend thinking so hard he was almost comatose and John sighed. He didn’t know what Moriarty had planned, but it was obviously very personal now. 

Well, personal between him and Sherlock. John had barely been referenced. ( _”I should get a live-in one._ ”) That made a change from their last meeting at Jim’s “party,” when he’d planned to torture a wheelchair-bound John in front of Sherlock. The only thing that had stopped him was a covert team of Mycroft’s, hidden by John’s gift, that had captured Moriarty.

Except so far as Moriarty knew, it was Sherlock who had defeated him last time. Oh, sure, Mycroft’s people had cleaned up and Moriarty had woken in one of Mycroft’s cells, but he hadn’t connected John with any of that. So far as he was concerned, John had been entirely incidental.

Which left them with an advantage in whatever game Dear Jim was setting up now.

Except, without knowing his plan, it was hard to know exactly what that advantage would be.

He just hoped it would be enough.

 

#

 

**Excerpt from transcript:**

_  
JM: Johann Sebastian would be appalled._

_SH: Are you here to criticize my playing?_

_JM: I’m here to tell you I’m impressed—and I don’t mean your playing, not on the violin, anyway._

_SH: Impressed? I’m not the one who just walked away from a prison sentence for the threefold crime of the century._

_JM: Did that impress you? Because I hoped it would._

_SH: You’re showing off for me. Why?_

_JM: Because I saw the video. From my party. I’m just returning the favor._

_SH: And … what? You’re going after John again?_

_JM: Your pet? No, why would I? He’s not important—I mean, I know you’re … attached … but don’t worry. I’m told that friends don’t mess with other friend’s toys. Maybe I should get a live-in one, too.”_

_SH: So, what? You can be more like me? Why?_

_JM: I told you._ I saw the video. _I want to know how you did it. It was you, wasn’t it? Not big brother? Clever, using your pet as a decoy. And, hiding the tranq gun from my guards? Brilliant. I almost couldn’t believe the footage, except I know you. It would be just like you to hide something brilliant like that from me, and of course you’re extraordinary. I was impressed, Sherlock, and I’m not easily impressed. Just think what we could do together!_

_SH: So … all of this … the crown jewels and the rest … it was an audition?_

_JM: I knew you’d be impressed. I didn’t even kill anybody, just for you. I knew you’d be unhappy with that._

_SH: You realize that I solve crimes; I do not commit them._

_JM: I understand. Big brother is watching, like he has been your whole life. How long has he tried to control what you can do? But you can’t let him limit you. I told you when we met—I’ve shown you just a little of what I can do. Think how much more we could do together._

_SH: No._

_JM: No?_

_SH: I am not interested._

_JM: Nobody says no to me, Sherlock._

_SH: Yet I just did, though your offer is quite … flattering._

_JM: You’d seriously turn me down—when we could be brilliant, earth-shattering together? With our minds? With my contacts and your incredible gift? You’d say no to that? You’d never be bored again._

_SH: I told you, I solve crimes. I’m not interested in committing them._

_JM: You’ll change your mind._

_SH: No._

_JM: You will. Or I’ll change it for you. Because I owe you, Sherlock. Either you join me or I’ll break you._

_SH: Indeed? How?_

_JM: It’s the final problem, Sherlock. Our final problem. I owe you, but you owe me, too. You either fall to join me on my level which, I promise you, will be more fun, more challenging than anything you can get … here. Or, you simply …_ FALL _. Think carefully, Sherlock. I can give you rewards your pet has never dreamed of. Falling is just like flying, but with a more permanent destination—this is your chance to choose where you land, Sherlock._

_SH: Tempting, but no._

_JM: You’ve made the wrong choice, but that’s okay. I’m looking forward to changing your mind—and you_ will _change your mind, Sherlock. I owe you, remember? I’ll be in touch._

__

 

#


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock hated to admit it, but he was having trouble concentrating, and at a time when he could not afford to be distracted.

All he could do was wait for Moriarty to strike. He knew he was going to. Sherlock had rebuffed his advances and that was not something Moriarty would take lightly. So, something was coming, something big, devastating … but there was nothing he could do until it arrived.

He kept an eye out for unusual events, coded messages in the papers, signs of trouble … anything out of the ordinary, but for several weeks, there was nothing. Just tension which was starting to wear down John, whose eyes were looking haunted.

That was what worried Sherlock the most—that John would likely be a target again. Moriarty seemed to have shifted his focus to Sherlock, but that didn’t mean he would ignore John. The man was far too tempting a target, after all. 

And, of course, Moriarty had no idea that the gift he was lusting after was actually John’s.

That was one of the things that worried Sherlock most—how much had Moriarty seen in that surveillance video? What had he deduced about John’s gift?

It didn’t surprise Sherlock that Moriarty had immediately assumed the gift was his. The man continually underestimated John in every way (pet, indeed!), so naturally he would assume the extraordinary gift was Sherlock’s. 

It led to an interesting (terrifying) line of speculation on what Moriarty’s reaction would be if he knew it was John. He certainly wouldn’t want to be John’s partner. No, he would try to subvert John, to turn him into a tool or “pet” of his own, which was utterly unthinkable. It would be better for John to work for _Mycroft_ (shudder) than be turned into something Moriarty would find useful. 

Sherlock couldn’t even think about the possibility that, in his ignorance, Moriarty might kill John as some kind of “lesson” for Sherlock, thereby eliminating John’s gift from the equation altogether.

No, Moriarty believed that the gift was Sherlock’s, that only Sherlock could be fascinating and talented enough to warrant his attention. Fine. Except Sherlock had already told him no, and Moriarty had not taken it well. Sherlock had no illusions about the likely response—it would be violent and vicious. From what he had seen of the man, he judged that he would be given one more chance to come play nicely—but that it would only be presented as a final choice. Moriarty would do whatever he could to eliminate all other possibilities from the board.

1\. The police. Moriarty knew about his occasionally rocky relationship with Scotland Yard. Sherlock knew he was not popular or even liked by the officers and Moriarty would not hesitate to use that against him. Given any reason at all, they would happily turn on him. Donovan and Anderson were halfway there already.

2\. The press. John had already warned him that the press and the public was fickle. They know him less well than Scotland Yard, and so they would be even faster to disavow him were things to go bad.

3\. The proof. And, therefore, Moriarty didn’t need actual evidence against him—just the appearance of it.

4\. The archenemy. Moriarty knew Mycroft. As little as Sherlock liked to admit it, his brother’s connections had often been … convenient. Having spent the last months in Mycroft’s custody, though, Moriarty would know this. He might not know the full breadth of Mycroft’s powers, but he knew OF Mycroft, which was more than most people. His plan—whatever his plan would be—would depend on Mycroft being taken out of the picture.

5\. The heart. John. Sherlock’s greatest strength and his greatest weakness.

It always came back to John.

 

#

 

John was just leaving Mycroft’s private room at the Diogenes Club when his phone rang. Worried about another repeat of the earlier scene ( _“What? Am I invisible?”_ ), he looked guiltily around as, this time, he tried hard to be as invisible as possible while he fumbled for the volume controls. Being thrown out had been embarrassing enough the first time (though he still felt Mycroft could have warned him about the no-talking rule).

He was concentrating so hard on not being noticed, he almost missed Sherlock walking through the room.

Sherlock?

But, weren’t he and Mycroft not speaking to each other? Why else would Mycroft have dragged John here just to tell him about a frankly scary gathering of international assassins just so he could pass the news on to Sherlock? Was this another of Mycroft’s kidnappings, or had Sherlock come voluntarily?

Without a thought, he hurried after Sherlock, just slipping in the door behind him, concentrating hard on _don’t see me, I’m not here, just ignore me, nothing to see_. He knew how hard it was to fool Sherlock, but something told him this was important.

“This is a surprise, Sherlock,” Mycroft said smoothly. “If you’re looking for John, I assure you, he is not here. He just left. In fact, I’m surprised you didn’t bump into him in the lobby.”

“He was here?” John was surprised to see that Sherlock hadn’t expected that. The detective hesitated a moment and then paced over to the door, opening it abruptly as if expecting to find John lurking on the other side—not realizing how close he came to punching John in the stomach with the doorknob as he dodged out of the way (still concentrating hard). “You’re certain he’s gone?”

John watched in amusement as Mycroft’s eyebrow lifted. “Several minutes ago. Would you like me to call up the CCTV footage for you?”

John’s mouth went dry for a moment—why hadn’t he thought of that?—but Sherlock shrugged it off, intent again on his original purpose. “No. It’s best that he not know we’ve spoken. In fact, you can’t let him know, Mycroft.”

John watched Mycroft’s face sharpen as he took in the distress mostly-but-not-entirely masked on Sherlock’s. “Of course. What do you need, Sherlock?” His voice was softer than usual.

“You know the game Moriarty is insisting I play.” It wasn’t a question. Sherlock knew that John had forwarded the video footage of Moriarty’s visit. “It’s going to escalate. It’s going to get bad. I need …”

“Yes, Sherlock? What can I do?”

John watched as Sherlock paced the room—not an unusual behavior by any means, but this time the action seemed unconscious, as if the man had no control. “He knows about John’s gift—or suspects it, I’m not sure. But he does not know that it’s _John’s_. He thinks the gift is mine and … Mycroft … he’s going to try to use John against me, you know that.”

“John’s safety has always been at risk in Moriarty’s ‘game,’ Sherlock—as has yours.”

“Yes, but …” Sherlock spun around to lean on his brother’s desk. “Moriarty wants _John’s gift_. He will do anything to gain it, which is why he is … wooing me. And when he cannot win my cooperation willingly, he will apply pressure. He’s already doing it. But he’s working with incomplete data.”

Mycroft’s expression cleared. “And you’re afraid he might hurt John, not realizing that he holds the gift he wants.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed the word, sinking down into the visitor’s chair as if suddenly boneless.

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, but Sherlock, that doesn’t put the doctor at any more risk than he already is. Moriarty may not know the realize _how_ John is important, but he knows that he is. He won’t hurt him unless he feels driven to it by your refusal.”

“The man is hardly rational, Mycroft. We cannot be sure of that. This game … the rules have changed.”

Mycroft tilted his head, considering. “Obviously telling him of John’s gift would be a mistake.”

“Fatal,” Sherlock said. “If coerced to his side, he might treat me as an equal partner, but John? Moriarty would only ever consider him a tool to be used … and broken. I can’t let that happen.”

“I agree. The doctor’s gift is far too valuable…”

“Not his gift, Mycroft. _Him_. John is far too valuable to let Moriarty anywhere near him.”

The merest twitch to the lips. “Of course. I value him also, you know.”

Sherlock just scoffed. “Yes, he’s a valuable _asset_ for you, but he’s …”

“Your friend,” Mycroft said gently.

Sherlock’s face twisted into a grimace and John felt guilty, suddenly, for witnessing this. “He’s suffered enough for me. I can’t let Moriarty get his hands on him. I can’t let him hurt him. I’ll do anything.”

“Why not tell him, then? You know he’s trust-worthy.”

“Yes, but a terrible liar, Mycroft,” Sherlock said with a hint of a smile. “ Him I trust completely, but not his acting ability.”

There was a long, endless moment of silence. “So, the original plan…?”

“Still in effect. Moriarty will want to strip me of all means of support so that I’m left with no choice but to join him.”

“Still a plan fraught with pain for John.”

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair. “I know. Moriarty’s plan depends on alienating everyone who believes in me, and John will bear the brunt of that. If I exclude him, though, push him away, at least he will still be alive.”

John couldn’t believe his ears. Did Sherlock really think his loyalty was so fragile? Mycroft was obviously thinking along the same lines. “You underestimate his loyalty if you think that is possible, Sherlock. After Baskerville, he knows how you feel about him.”

Sherlock’s head came up. “What? You think that will … no, Mycroft. My so-called friendship almost got him killed at Baskerville and he knows that. If anything, that fiasco will work in my favor. He has had incontrovertible evidence that I am inept at friendship. My failure in that area can’t possibly come as a surprise. If creating distance between us will keep him alive and out of Moriarty’s hands, so be it.”

“At what cost to you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock just shook his head. “That doesn’t matter, My. No matter what happens, you have to promise me you’ll keep him safe. Nothing else matters.”

Mycroft just watched him for a moment and then said, “Your safety matters to me, Sherlock. To John, too.”

John saw a flicker of some unfamiliar emotion cross his friend’s face. “But you’ll follow the plan?”

“I will, but I’d rather keep you both safe. You know Mummy will never forgive me if something happens to you.”

Sherlock breathed a long exhale. “I think she gave up on your controlling me years ago. She’ll understand.”

A tight smile. “Easy for you to say, Sherlock. You won’t be the one being scolded.”

Sherlock was back on his feet. “It’ll make a change, anyway. You know you were always her favorite.” He looked at his brother for a long moment. “Until soon, Mycroft.”

“Until soon, Sherlock.”

And Sherlock was breezing through the door, coat flaring behind him as John was left standing in shock.

He started to follow Sherlock when Mycroft said, “Did you catch all of that, John?”

 

#

 

John blinked, considering the possibility of pretending, but what was the point? He relaxed his concentration and asked, “How did you know this time?”

“CCTV cameras, John. I didn’t see you leave and the timing was so close—naturally you’d be curious when you saw Sherlock. And, of course, there are the heat sensors.”

“Heat sensors. Of course there are heat sensors,” John said, crossing to the nearest chair and sitting down. “So, what was all that?”

“I hope you don’t expect me to break my brother’s confidence, John.”

John just looked at him, taking in the bland politician’s face. “Yet you let me stay.”

There was that tiny, smug smile he knew so well. “I have no control of what you may or may not overhear, of course, or what conclusions you may draw, though it never hurts to have full information from which to work.”

John studied him for a moment. “You and Sherlock are playing some angle against Moriarty, something that requires subterfuge, and he doesn’t trust me with it.” He snorted a brief laugh. “You’d think he’d know better by now. My entire life is about subterfuge.”

“Perhaps, but that’s not the same as lying, John. You’re a remarkably honest person, and Sherlock knows that. If things fall out the way we fear, we need to rely on your reactions being completely authentic. It’s not about keeping a secret. In that regard Sherlock trusts you implicitly. It’s about being as real as possible—and nobody is better at that than you. Nothing less than total honesty will be convincing.”

John thought about that a moment. He considered Mycroft’s love of security, secrecy, and covert ops. He thought about his own ability, and how often he’d been told he had no guile, no knack for subterfuge. Yet, the people who said that had no idea how many secrets he had—his own gift being one of them. Just because he chose not to lie did not mean he was bad at it—just that he was assumed to be bad. (Though he had to admit his lies were less believable when he was flustered.)

Yet, Mycroft had let him stay. He wasn’t telling him details of Sherlock’s plan, but he was letting him know that a plan existed. 

From Mycroft Holmes, this was … extraordinary. As in, completely outside the ordinary. 

Mycroft was counting on John’s honest face to keep Sherlock safe in the face of … whatever the two of them were planning.

John met his eyes. “You know, you told me that you’d like me available for freelance jobs. It seems that this is one I’m ideally suited for, don’t you think?”

“I already told you I won’t break his confidence, John.”

“I’m not asking you to. I’m not asking what the two of you are planning, and I won’t tell him we talked about any of this. But that doesn’t mean my skills won’t come in handy, Mycroft. You already know that I have his back—but think how much more effective I will be if I know what I’m watching for.”

Another smug smile. “I already know both those things, John—but it’s your open face that we need to keep him safe. Too much information will influence that, which I cannot risk.” 

John set his jaw, marshaling his arguments, but Mycroft continued, “I already know you will protect him, John. Believe me, it’s the only reassuring fact in all of this.”

“But what if it’s not enough?” John asked, hating how uncertain his voice sounded. “What if I don’t know enough, can’t do enough?”

“Then it simply was not humanly possible,” Mycroft told him firmly. “I trust you, John. I’ll give you what data I can—like the names and faces of your new neighbors—but for the rest? Trust your instincts. From what I’ve seen, you can accomplish almost anything when you need to. If anyone can protect Sherlock from Jim Moriarty and his own worst instincts, it’s you.”

And with that, John had to be satisfied.

 

#


	4. Chapter 4

John was getting paranoid.

Between the conversation with Mycroft about their new super-assassin “neighbors” and knowledge of Sherlock’s undisclosed plan, he felt like he was being constantly watched.

Well, to be fair, he probably _was_ being watched, and it was all he could do not to fade into the background every time he left the flat. There was Mycroft and his CCTV, first of all. Then there was Sherlock inside the flat, busily observing every behavior, every nuance of every little thing John did. He counted himself successful that Sherlock never suspected that he’d witnessed that conversation in Mycroft’s office. (Like hell he couldn’t act, he thought to himself triumphantly.) 

Add a cadre of international assassins to the mix, and really, a little paranoia was entirely justified.

One thing was certain, all this observation made his gift come in handy. He didn’t want to seem suspicious by appearing never to leave the flat, but there were times when he couldn’t resist the chance to get out on his own, unseen. If that occasionally made him feel like a teenager sneaking out of the house, so be it.

He was returning from one such (peaceful, solitary, quiet) outing when he found the envelope of breadcrumbs at the front door. He didn’t know why, but the sight of it gave him chills. He ran up to the flat to tell Sherlock, but found Lestrade there, asking for Sherlock’s help with the kidnapping of two children.

The envelope could wait.

The next few hours were a flurry of activity as Sherlock whirled about the school, playing with linseed oil and black lights. John reminded him that smiling at their misfortune was inappropriate, but otherwise, it was a normal day at the office, more or less. He just tried to keep out of everybody’s way as Sherlock gathered clues and evidence. 

Sometimes, being invisible didn’t require his gift at all.

 

#

 

“You remind me of my Dad,” Molly told him.

Sherlock wasn’t sure what had brought about this awkward conversation, but Molly obviously had something she needed to say. He glanced over to where John was working quietly in the corner and thought about the things he had told him about being “nice” and so refrained from snapping at her for interrupting.

He didn’t understand, though. Wasn’t the search for two kidnapped children more urgent than reminiscences of her dead father? He knew sentiment was not his strong suit, but was this really the time?

Then she said, “You look sad. You look sad when you think John can’t see you.” Sherlock glanced across the room, wondering why she was saying this now, in front of John, when he realized—she couldn’t see him. John had apparently done his unconscious-invisibility thing that never actually affected Sherlock. It made things awkward when other people didn’t realize John was there … but that’s not the issue right now. He forced himself to turn back to her. Laboriously he forced his brain to follow, to maneuver the trail she had laid. She had just compared him to her father when he was dying because she thought he looked … oh. Oh!

He just stared at her as she babbled, unable to even try to stop her as he normally would. How had she seen that? How had innocuous, invisible Molly Hooper seen how very … terrified … he was? 

Because, he was. Well, maybe terrified was too strong a word. He was not panicking or losing control of his cognitive processes. He had experienced terror at Baskerville (in more ways than one) and this was different. But the fear … the fear was there. The overpowering fear that he would fail to keep John safe.

How had she seen that?

How had she known?

He looked back over his microscope to where John was hard at work, thankfully oblivious to the revealing conversation taking place. His friend looked tired, worried, and if his plan failed, John would soon look even worse. Sherlock was the first to admit that Moriarty was a genius, and there was no way to know if he had foreseen every move the man might make. He was playing the most important chess game of his life and he couldn’t afford to lose. 

 

#

 

John just stood back and watched in awe as Sherlock performed yet another miracle. Working from the dirt embedded in the kidnapper’s shoes, he had extrapolated the location of the warehouse the children were being kept in. His homeless network had helped identify the specific building, and they had found them. Not a moment too soon, either. The boy was in hospital with mercury poisoning and the girl frantic and traumatized. 

And, when she saw Sherlock, she’d screamed.

Why had she screamed?

John knew he was not a genius, but he had gone through medical school, he was a surgeon. He was not stupid. But this? How could he be expected to understand someone like Moriarty? Take a genius level IQ and add in utter, psychotic madness and you get a terrified child screaming at an innocent man—only now he doesn’t look quite so innocent. How was he supposed to make sense of that?

Oh, Moriarty was a genius, all right. Diabolical, but very, very good at what he did.

He didn’t know why Sherlock was keeping this vendetta of Moriarty’s quiet. If it were John’s problem, he’d at least make sure Lestrade knew the truth instead of keeping it a secret. The soldier in him understood the need for backup. And, after all, Lestrade knew that Moriarty’s last game had been aimed at Sherlock, shouldn’t he know that this was a new round, just another “game”?

But then, there were too many elements John didn’t know. What if he accidentally gave away something crucial to Sherlock and Mycroft’s secret plan? What if Moriarty’s participation had to be kept secret? All he knew for sure was that Mycroft depended on him to keep Sherlock safe and to react naturally to … whatever. 

How two kidnapped children played into this … well, they were just pawns, like Moriarty’s press gang of serial bombers the first time. Obviously Dear Jim considered everybody simply a pawn in his game—with the sole exception of Sherlock Holmes

So, why had the girl screamed?

Answer: Because Moriarty needed her to. 

And in the meantime, here was John feeling redundant and useless again. Invisible. Sherlock had barely said a word to him since they’d returned from the school yesterday. He’d talked longer to Molly than he had to John, which was curious in itself. He didn’t know what Molly had been saying, but he had to admit his curiosity was piqued. From the way Sherlock had glanced in his direction, though, it was private—or as private as conversations with Sherlock got. But still, it had rankled—there he had been, trying to be as quiet as he could so as not to distract Sherlock, and Molly was initiating entire, heartfelt conversations.

This was definitely one of those times when John felt more invisible than not. He tried to remind himself that Mycroft implied he would have a job to do. Tried to remember that there was nothing he could do to help Sherlock’s brain process data any faster. (Was that even possible?) He reminded himself that there were plenty of things he did that were helpful and useful—just … not at the moment.

It didn’t help. 

He cast about for something he could do that would be productive, but found himself staring at Sherlock’s back as the man gazed out the NSY window. He wondered for approximately the 954th time what he and Mycroft were planning, what John’s part would be, other than to ‘be himself.’

Well, fine then. John would do exactly what he was supposed to do and act naturally—which meant protecting Sherlock. He wandered over to Lestrade while Sherlock stared out the window. The inspector was watching the distraught little girl with a perplexed look on his face. 

“What do you suppose made her do that?” John asked.

“Dunno. She was fine until she saw Sherlock.” 

John didn’t like the tentative undertones in his voice. “She’s been through a lot.”

“What? Yeah,” Lestrade responded absently. “It’s just curious.”

“I disagree.” John watched the sobbing girl for a moment , “It’s _terrible_. Taking kids and essentially forcing them to poison themselves? That’s worse than what happened to me in Baskerville.”

Lestrade looked at him, gaze suddenly sharp. “You think so?”

John nodded. “Absolutely. I’m not the only one, either. Sherlock’s been extra—vigilant—about kidnappers lately. I’m not talking about Mycroft’s specialties, mind you, or even something straight-forward like a ransom request. But after what happened to me in Baskerville … something twisted like this hits too close to home, even for Sherlock.”

“You think so?”

“I’m invisible, inspector, not blind, and I saw the hours he put into finding these children.” John looked back at the girl, who was thankfully calming now. “We both know he’s drawn to the puzzles, that he needs the challenge to keep sane, but he cares, too. He hides it too damn well, which is why people like Anderson think he’s a psychopath, but that doesn’t make it true. Something about this case is worrying him.”

“And that’s exactly what worries me, John,” Lestrade said. “I know his obnoxious behavior is just his personality trying to deal with idiots like the rest of us. But actually worried? I’ve only seen him like that once …” His voice trailed off as he cast a guilty look at John.

“Baskerville,” said John. 

“Yeah,” he said on a long breath. “I can deal with his supercilious attitude. I can shrug off his casual attitude toward death and paperwork. But—he’s worried about _something_ , and all I’ve got to go on is that that poor little girl screamed when he saw him.”

“It’s like that game with Moriarty all over again,” John ventured, carefully choosing his words.

“And look how that turned out? On trial for the crime of the century and the man got off clean after six minutes of deliberation and no defence.” Lestrade was staring through the glass again. “It’s a crazy world, mate.”

“That’s for sure,” John said. “It’s never boring, though.”

“Says the man who can turn himself invisible,” Lestrade said with a hint of his usual grin.

“Yes, well, that’s not much help here, is it? A time machine would be more useful, but I’m not that kind of doctor. Poor kid.”

“Yeah.” Lestrade’s lips tightened, but there was a shadow in his eyes that worried John. Just then, he saw a pale Sherlock suddenly heading for the lifts. “Call if you need us,” John said as he gave a final nod at the inspector and took off after Sherlock.

 

#


	5. Chapter 5

_IOU_.

Sherlock was beginning to hate those letters. He was being haunted by them, tormented by an ambiguous but deadly threat in text-speak, the words not even properly punctuated or spelled out. It was like salt in the wound, making his grammatical sensibilities flinch along with the rest of him, every time.

He slumped back in the cab, trying not to think of John, left on the pavement. He had to concentrate on this case. The children. The so-called final problem. The girl’s scream was the signal. Not so much a starting gun because this problem had started long ago, but the bell signaling they were on the final lap.

The child herself was unimportant. It was the scream that mattered, that would be remembered. That would be …

The screen flickered to life in front of him, blaring an ad for some ridiculously cheesy jewelry. “Could you turn this off, please?” he asked the driver, trying to regain his thought.

The screen continued its spiel and he asked again for it to be turned off, and then it flickered … and Moriarty was there, telling a fairytale. The tale of Sir Boastalot, who was right all the time and rubbed everyone the wrong way because he was so proud and full of himself. (Yes, yes, he understood the analogy, he thought. Get on with it already.) 

The story continued, clouds darkening the screen as the king began to doubt Sir Boastalot, and now Moriarty was back on screen, dressed as a knight himself. 

_“But all was not lost, because Sir Boastalot had one friend left. One, true friend who could truly appreciate his special gifts, not like those idiots back at the Round Table._

_“So, finally, one day Sir Boastalot was left with a choice. Try to convince all those fools who didn’t deserve his brilliance that he really was as good as he’d claimed, or to leave them to their stupid, knightly games and go off with his one and only friend, Sir Fixit._

_“What will he decide? Tune in for the final installment! The End.”_

Sherlock banged on the divider. “Stop the cab!” He leapt from the cab and rushed to the driver’s window, ready to insist on an explanation … and stopped short when he saw Moriarty. “No charge,” the man said as the cab rushed away, Sherlock in pursuit.

Only for a moment, though, as he was pulled out of traffic by a large man who looked familiar. He thanked him, gasping for breath, when he realized … it was one of the assassins Mycroft had warned John about. As assassin saving his life? He blinked, trying to absorb this new information when a shot exploded through the silence and the man was dead. Dead as he shook his hand. For a moment Sherlock reeled, bombarded by conflicting, incomprehensible data. The kidnapping. The scream. The video. The cab driver. The assassin. None of it made sense.

And then there was another cab and John was there, taking things in hand. It wasn’t simple, of course. They had a dead body to deal with, and explanations to make … not that explanations were possible. How could Sherlock explain that the man had apparently been shot for saving his life? As it was, the officers on the scene were disbelieving, and if it weren’t for the evidence that the shot had been fired from a distance, he likely would have been arrested, and the whole thing was simply not acceptable because this was all Moriarty’s plan and what he needed more than anything else was silence and a chance to _think_ and none of this was helping so why couldn’t they all just go away and leave him alone _becauseitwasalltoomuch_. 

He felt a hand on his arm and, startled, looked down at John’s concerned face. “You all right?”

“I need to _think_ ,” he said, wincing at the tinge of desperation in his voice.

John just looked at him for a moment then glanced back at the scene. “Right. You gave your statement, yeah?” At Sherlock’s nod, he said, “Then come on. They know where to find us. Let’s get you home.”

Having had enough of cabs for the moment, they walked the rest of the way to the flat. “So, what happened there?” John asked.

“I’m sure you heard me telling the officers, John.”

John just directed a look from under his lashes. “Yes, but now I’m asking _you_ what happened. You were in a cab when you left the station. How’d you end up running down the middle of the street?”

Sherlock was reminded yet again of John Watson’s deceptive appearance. He seemed so ordinary, and yet observed better than he gave him credit for. John already knew about Moriarty’s threats, but he couldn’t know too much. He would only be safe if he was ignorant. Still … he owed him some kind of explanation, didn’t he? “Another ploy of Moriarty’s,” Sherlock said, hoping they could leave it at that.

“What? What did he do?” John’s voice was sharp, concerned.

“Nothing. Just a reminder.”

“But…”

“It was nothing, John. Just hot air.”

A snort from John. “Hot air that had you running down the street after a cab? What aren’t you telling me, Sherlock?”

“I said, it was nothing, just let it alone!” How could the man not understand that Sherlock did not want to talk about this? That he was safer without knowing?

But John was grabbing his arm and swinging him around. “This is Moriarty, Sherlock. It’s not ‘nothing.’ He may be focusing on you this time, but I want to stop him just as much as you do. He strapped me into a bomb, remember? You do _not_ get to do this without me. You do _not_ get to shut me out! We are in this together.”

Sherlock couldn’t help himself. “No, we’re not. Moriarty is interested in me, John. Not you. The more involved you are, the more endangered you are!”

John suddenly looked furious, like it was all he could do to refrain from shoving Sherlock up against the wall. “Right, because we know how well it works when you try to protect me by keeping me ignorant, don’t we? The pool, Sherlock? The car? _Baskerville?_ It seems to me that my life has been more in danger when you’ve tried to leave me behind than when we’re working together. Don’t cut me out of this, Sherlock. I have just as much at stake here as you do, and I’m not a child who needs protecting!”

Sherlock took note of John’s accelerated breathing, the set of his jaw, the flush in his skin as he considered his words. Was he right? “I never said you were, John. But …”

“No buts, Sherlock.” John’s voice was firm. “I’m not saying you have to tell me every thought that goes through your head, but … no secrets.” 

Sherlock knew there was no way he could agree to that. There were things, plans, John could not know about. His very life might depend on his being ignorant. Yet, he had a point. Each time Sherlock had left him behind in an attempt to keep him safe, John had ended up in more danger than he would have had Sherlock kept him in sight.

Not to mention that Sherlock found it easier to concentrate in John’s easy company, with him in earshot for bouncing ideas.

“It wasn’t anything new, John,” he said finally. “He was just reinforcing his earlier threat of join him or pay the price—this time, illustrated with a children’s cartoon about Sir Boastalot.” A reflexive smile pulled at John’s mouth and Sherlock felt his own expression lighten in return. “Yes, I did get the analogy.”

“And what did he call himself in this cartoon? Sir Bombalot?”

“Sir Fixit,” Sherlock said bluntly, “Which implies that things—me—are about to be broken.”

 

#

 

John followed Sherlock up the stairs at Baker Street as the detective talked about spies and assassins and dust being eloquent. He had a feeling he looked as bemused as Mrs. Hudson as Sherlock climbed on the furniture, looking for hidden cameras. (Funny, he’d always rather thought Mycroft had those in the flat anyway.) 

He was past being angry at Sherlock for trying to exclude him—again. He didn’t know how he was going to convince his friend to stop doing that, but now was not the time. He’d never seen Sherlock so frazzled, almost as if he were out of his depth. 

He knew panic when he saw it, and while Sherlock wasn’t quite there yet, he was close. Yes, the man’s livelihood was founded on solving near-unsolvable puzzles, but there was an element of control there. He might not know the answers in advance, but he knew the steps to take to find them. He could control what questions were asked, what experiments were run. 

And, if needed, he could walk away. (Not that Sherlock had ever walked away from a problem in his life, or at least not since John had known him.)

This, though. This was different. This time it was a trap closing in around Sherlock and there was nothing either of them could do to stop it. Hell, John couldn’t even _see_ the trap. He just knew it was there, and that Sherlock—impassive, super-human, no-emotions Sherlock Bloody Holmes—was showing the strain.

And what could John do? Nothing. He might not be entirely invisible, but he was next to useless, and he hated it.

He was watching Sherlock rooting around the bookshelves when Lestrade came up the stairs, with none of his usual energy. 

“No, Inspector,” Sherlock said as he pulled something (a camera?) from behind a book at the top corner of the case. 

He was in control of himself again, John noted, his earlier strain put aside or buried. His voice was calm, almost patient, as he explained why he would not go with Lestrade for questioning. “Oh, Moriarty’s clever. You can’t fight an idea, can you? Not once it’s found a home _here_ ,” he said, tapping a finger on the man’s forehead. 

John, meanwhile, was surprised to hear Moriarty’s name cross his lips. So far as he knew, Sherlock had not told anyone that this was a new game of Moriarty’s. There had been no clues (for anyone other than Sherlock) that the kidnapping had been anything more than it seemed. He wondered what it meant that Lestrade showed no surprise at hearing the name.

He just hoped it didn’t mean he thought Sherlock was lying … or delusional.

John tried not to wince at Sherlock’s earnest “It is a game, Lestrade, and not one that I am willing to play.” He couldn’t help but contrast it to the last time Moriarty challenged him to a game, when Sherlock had been champing at the bit in his eagerness not to be bored. 

Oh, Sherlock had enjoyed following the clues to find the kidnapped children. There was no question he had relished the challenge and delighted in the complexity of the solution. That was the way Sherlock’s brain worked, after all. He had done everything humanly possible to save the children but had enjoyed the hunt. John saw nothing wrong with that, not really. It was the same way he’d felt saving lives in Afghanistan—not at all happy that his patients had been shot or blown up, hating the unnecessary violence, yet proud of having the skills necessary to save their lives.

But now? 

That very relish—those very skills were working against Sherlock because people like Sally Donovan were too stupid to see the parallels between what they did and what Sherlock did. Sherlock did not like that people were murdered or tortured or abused. He was not happy that families were torn apart by ruthless criminals. He just had a unique skill set to help bring them justice—just like John had helped save broken, exploded lives, just like Scotland Yard tried to bring criminals to justice. 

The only difference was that Sherlock made no bones about the fact that he relished the chase, the puzzle. And why shouldn’t he? The special satisfaction at being very, very good at a very, very difficult job was something you either understood instinctively or would never understand. Donovan and Anderson would not only never understand (even though, in theory, they had the same mentality since they actually worked for NSY), but they would continue to resent Sherlock Holmes forever for being better than they at their own jobs—and for enjoying it.

All these thoughts flew through John’s mind as he watched Lestrade drive away. He only half paid attention to Sherlock’s saying they would likely be back to arrest him. “You should have gone with them,” John said, eyes on the street, “People will think…”

“I don’t care what people think,” Sherlock said calmly. Almost too calmly.

Yeah, right, thought John. “You would care if they thought you were stupid,” he said aloud, “Or wrong.”

“No, that would just make them stupid and wrong.” Sherlock’s voice was distant as he examined the camera, as if people’s opinion of him could not affect him in the least.

“Sherlock!” John burst out, exasperated as he turned from the window. “I don’t want the world believing that you’re …” 

He couldn’t finish the sentence. How could Sherlock _say_ that? How could he even imply that his reputation wasn’t important? That was all a man had in the world—his name, his honor. Old-fashioned though it might be, John believed it in his bones—especially for a man like Sherlock Holmes, who had _earned_ his reputation. (And Lord knew he couldn’t rely on his personality.)

Sherlock was just looking at him, face ghostly in the glow from the laptop. “That I am what?” he asked, meticulously pronouncing each syllable.

“A fraud.” John said, barely able to say the words. Because of course Sherlock wasn’t a fraud. John had seen too much of his brilliance in the eighteen months they’d lived together to have any doubts. The fact that other people could … it was unthinkable.

Which is why he was stunned when Sherlock said, “You’re worried they’re right.”

“What?” He can’t have heard that correctly.

“You’re worried they’re right about me,” Sherlock said, leaning back in his chair almost as if vindicated. As if this betrayal had been something expected.

“No.” John shook his head in denial. How could a man so brilliant be so clueless? 

“That’s why you’re so upset. You can’t even entertain the possibility that they’re right. You’re afraid you’ve been taken in as well.”

That settled it. Sherlock was an idiot—either that, or he was so conditioned to believe nobody would stick by him, that he was ready to push John away rather than rely on him. John just shook his head. “No, I’m not.”

And then Sherlock exploded, reacting to the betrayal he believed was happening. “Moriarty is playing with your mind, too. Can’t you see what’s going on?”

John swallowed, surprised at the vehemence, hurt. Then he said quietly, “No, I know you’re for real.”

“One hundred percent?” Sherlock was looking down at the laptop again, not meeting John’s eyes. Still not believing him.

John just stared, stung by the realization that Sherlock had so little faith in him. After all they’d been through together? After Baskerville? John had trusted Sherlock with the greatest secret—not to mention his life—countless times. Why would Sherlock possibly doubt him? 

It hurt, he admitted it, but he supposed this wasn’t the time to mention it. He settled on saying, “Nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time,” as flatly as possible. That said it all, really.

 

#


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock looked up from the camera in his hand. He had described Moriarty as a spider in a web, and despite his best efforts, he could feel it closing as the game came to an end, only … he wasn’t feeling confident this time. He could still win—he had to win—but this was no longer a series of nice, clean puzzles. This time he had much more at stake. 

Like John, standing gazing out the window as Lestrade left. He had said that he believed in Sherlock, but … there had been that hesitation. 

He shouldn’t be surprised, of course. Moriarty was, after all, very good at what he did. It wasn’t surprising that John would be questioning his loyalty. He had thought John was made of sterner stuff—but then, he was human, fallible, like everyone else. No matter how loyal his heart.

Which is why Sherlock tried to keep his voice gentle, restrain the bitterness, as he said, “That’s why you’re so upset. You can’t even entertain the possibility that they’re right. You’re afraid you’ve been taken in as well.”

John just shook his head blankly, “No, I’m not.”

And with that … with that faltering of the best friend he’d ever known, Sherlock’s desperation flared up. “Moriarty is playing with your mind, too,” he said, practically shouting as he slammed his hand on the desk. “Can’t you see what’s going on?”

There was silence for a long moment, the air almost sticky with emotion, making it hard to breathe. Then John said, “No, I know you’re for real.”

Sherlock studied his face for a moment and then looked back at the laptop as he asked, “One hundred percent?”

Another long pause and then John’s voice came, crisp and cold. “Nobody could fake being such an annoying dick all the time.”

And there it was. John was offended. But then, John was often offended, thought Sherlock. Yet he was also the most patient man he knew—at least, in so far as he was still here. He might snap or head out for “fresh air” on a regular basis; he might nag about Sherlock’s sleeping and eating habits but, eighteen months on, he was still here, still loyal.

He was loyal, too, Sherlock reminded himself. Even if Moriarty had tried to create doubts, John hadn’t accepted them. That counted for something.

He finished with the camera and moved to his chair while John paced the room for a few minutes before heading to the kitchen to make tea. He brought Sherlock a cup and sat down across from him, sipping from his mug as Sherlock thought about Moriarty’s latest move—and the likelihood that Lestrade would be coming back with a warrant. 

Sherlock held his mug, relishing the heat in his hands, the way the hot tea warmed the chill he couldn’t seem to shake. If Moriarty had his way, this could be the last time he and John had tea together, and that was unthinkable. “Why?” he eventually asked.

John looked startled, pulled from his own thoughts. “Why? You mean why do I believe in you?” He just shook his head, this time with affection. “You mean other than because I’ve seen you in action for a year and a half, deducing everything from Mrs. Hudson’s choice of breakfast cereals to Molly’s new kitten on nothing stronger than a snagged stocking? Other than that it would be impossible to fake the level of deduction every time we leave the flat that makes you tell me about the people passing us on the street? Oh, and other than that I know for a fact that Moriarty is pursuing a vendetta against you, has promised to burn you, and I can think of no better way for him to do that than to destroy you?”

Sherlock nodded, taking another sip of tea, trying not to feel so comforted by the warm words and the hot liquid trailing down his throat. 

“Because on top of all those things, you idiot, you’re my _friend_. I’ve trusted you with my deepest secret and you’ve saved my life on several occasions. Even if _any_ of Moriarty’s story was true and you were a fraud—which I know you’re not—I still wouldn’t lose faith in _you_.” John just shook his head at him, that familiar blend of affection and annoyance on his face. “Because even if you were a fraud, you’d still be the fraud who’d saved my life—and I’m not just talking about bombs, guns, and mad scientists, either. I was almost dead when I came home from Afghanistan, Sherlock, and I was … close … to being truly dead. But you saved me. You’ve always saved me, and no matter what happens, you’ll always be my friend.”

John blinked as he finished, looking awkward as only an Englishman can when talking about his feelings, but Sherlock was too busy feeling stunned to be embarrassed. He’d known that John cared for him (a miracle after Baskerville, really). He had known he was loyal, but to hear it stated so bluntly, so matter-of-factly … he had no idea how to respond. 

“You … That was … I …”

“Sherlock Holmes at a loss for words,” John said with a small smile, “The world really is coming to an end.”

“I’m hoping it won’t come to that,” Sherlock replied, “But … John …” 

“It’s fine, Sherlock. It’s all fine. Moriarty’s not going to win. We’ve beat him twice. We’ll beat him again. But, why doesn’t the Yard know that it’s Moriarty this time?”

Sherlock took another breath, still stunned, still amazed. “It’s not like last time, John,” he said, trying to find the words to explain that things might not go well this time, that he wasn’t sure he could stand against the tsunami wave of Moriarty’s full, malevolent attention, not by himself. He had prided himself on being self-reliant, but with Lestrade’s trust showing cracks, and that momentary fear that John’s faith was faltering … he found that he wasn’t as self-reliant as he believed. He found that—to his surprise—he had had a support network he hadn’t even realized was there until Moriarty started stripping it away. 

He was trying to find a way to put that into words for this one man who had never asked anything of him, who had always let him simply be himself, and who in return gave him friendship such that Sherlock had never imagined possible. He was at sea with the flood of conflicting emotions and needs when John’s phone rang.

He watched John’s face grow still and knew. Lestrade. 

It was happening.

 

#

 

John watched in disbelief as Lestrade entered the flat again—his face set, this time, determined. 

“Have you got a warrant? Have you?” John asked as they entered, thinking of all the fake drugs busts, all the friendly visits over the months he’d known him..

But right now, his friend Greg was not even there. This was entirely Detective Inspector Lestrade, and he was all business. “Leave it, John,” he said as he crossed the room. “Sherlock Holmes, I’m arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping.”

Watching in disbelief as Lestrade handcuffed his friend, John asked, “Is this necessary?”

Sherlock gave a tiny shake to his head, face set. “It’s all right, John.”

“He’s not resisting,” John protested. “And no, it’s not all right. This is ridiculous.” How was this happening? 

Lestrade leaned in, every muscle tense, and said, “Don’t try to interfere or I shall arrest you, too.” John took a look at the man’s eyes and saw that yes, he was serious and, yes, he would do his job but that no, he wasn’t any happier about this than John was. He was just trying to do get this done as quickly as possible because he had no choice. And so John just stood there and let his good friend take his best friend away in handcuffs. 

Brotherly competition be damned, he would call Mycroft as soon as they left. Sherlock had known this was going to happen. He had said straight out after Lestrade called, “I can’t afford to be arrested right now, John,” but John didn’t know what else he could DO. 

John was staring at their disappearing backs as they went down the stairs when Sally Donovan came up behind him, a smirk plastered across her face. “Are you done?” John asked, wondering how she could look so happy when the whole thing was one, damn catastrophe.

“Well, I said it. First time we met.”

John remembered, and the last thing he wanted at this minute was to hear her say it again just to rub it in. “Don’t bother.”

But Sally Donovan was never one to pick up a hint when she could be self-righteous, and so she continued, “Solving crimes won’t be enough, one day he would cross the line,” she quoted herself, voice as smug as her too-pleased face. “Now ask yourself, what kind of man would abduct those kids just so he could impress us all by finding them?”

John was staring at her, trying to think how to respond to such short-sighted, close-minded, vitriolic absurdity, when a large man came strolling into the flat for all the world as if he belonged there. “Donovan? Was that our man? Bit of a weirdo, if you ask me,” he said, looking around the sitting room with even more disgust than Jim Moriarty had managed. “They often are, these vigilante types …” He trailed off as he saw John staring, “What are you looking at?”

And there it was. As if John weren’t already at the end of his tether. As if his best friend hadn’t been arrested on totally ridiculous charges. As if this wasn’t shaping up to be one of the worst nights of his life (and he’d had a fair number of those). Now this … self-satisfied berk had to come in to _his_ home, oozing an authority he didn’t deserve … and make no mistake, John had been in the military. He knew the difference between authority that was inborn (Mycroft had it in spades) and the superficial authority that was grasped at by the undeserving in a vain attempt to shore up a non-existent self-worth. John also had long since lost whatever tolerance he’d had for the latter trying to exert authority over _his life_ damn it, and that sneer … Well, that pushed him over the edge.

He pulled back his arm, and swung.

 

#

 

Of course, John wasn’t stupid—or not like one might think. 

He was well aware of the likely consequences of this action. (No self-satisfied martinet like the chief superintendent would shrug off this kind of behavior.) A true gentleman, a mate like Lestrade, would possibly have made excuses for him and let it go, and that wasn’t something this man would do. 

Which was fine. 

Had the entire arrest gone as Lestrade wanted—as easily and painlessly an event as possible, with Sherlock being treated with respect, John would have been happy (well, not _happy_ ) to stay in the background and wait until he could call Mycroft.

But no, Donovan and the others had to start sniping, making their “I knew he was a psychopath all along” remarks before his friend … his _friend_ , damn it … was even down the stairs. What happened to professionalism? Detachment? What happened to the famous British stiff upper lip? Innocent before proven guilty? Human decency?

And if they were going to treat Sherlock this way before they’d even left Baker Street? It was going to be even worse down at the Yard.

So … Sherlock had said he couldn’t afford to be arrested just now?

Fine. Let’s see what they could do about that.

At the very least, he wasn’t letting Sherlock go alone.

 

#

Sherlock almost smiled as John was shoved up against the cruiser next to him. How had he doubted his loyalty? “Joining me?”

“Yeah, apparently it’s against the law to chin the chief superintendent,” John said with that wry understatement Sherlock enjoyed so much. 

He glanced around at the swarming officers, the flashing lights. “Bit awkward, this.”

“No one to bail us.”

Another glance. Lestrade was standing a good distance away, and Donovan was busy fussing over the superintendent’s bloody nose. Nobody else who mattered was facing their way. “I was thinking about our imminent and daring escape.”

“Our what?” John’s question implied surprise, but there was a glint in his eye that meant he had been thinking the same thing. 

“Nobody’s looking, John,” Sherlock told him pointedly.

A grin spread across his friend’s face. “I’ve never vanished in front of an entire squad of police officers before.” 

And before Sherlock could say anything else, they were gone.

 

#


	7. Chapter 7

Together, they slipped past the milling officers, Sherlock picking a handcuff key from a random uniform’s pocket as they eased away. 

John glanced toward Lestrade. He might be a friend, but he was also an officer, smart, and knew about John’s gift. He would be the most likely person to notice they were gone. The detective was standing still, talking to Donovan now, and giving occasional glances at the cruiser they’d been cuffed against, his face blank. John smiled. The man was a good friend, after all, one who hadn’t wanted to arrest them in the first place. 

Tempting though it was to go back into 221B, they turned away. There were too many officers around, and there were better, more productive things they could be doing.

“So, what are we doing now?”

“Doing what Moriarty wants. Becoming fugitives,” Sherlock told him, just as a roar of chaos exploded from the street behind them and a handful of officers went running past them. “I think they’ve noticed we’re missing.”

“I think so, yes,” John said, trying not to wince as Sherlock worked at the handcuffs. “They seem upset. You’d think they hadn’t worked with you all these … well, no. They _have_ worked with you. Of course they’re going wild. They’re already primed to believe the worst about you.” 

“Everybody wants to believe it, that’s what makes it so clever,” Sherlock told him as they ducked against a wall to let some searchers pass. “A lie that’s preferable to the truth. If my brilliant deductions were just a sham, nobody feels inadequate. Sherlock Holmes was just a fraud.”

John didn’t want to think about how true that was. For a psychopath, you had to give Moriarty credit for his grasp on how regular humans thought. “What about Mycroft? He could help us.”

Sherlock peered around the corner and shook his head. “Now’s not really the moment for reconciliation.”

John just rolled his eyes. Of course not, because being framed and arrested for crimes you hadn’t committed was such an awkward time to talk to your He-Is-The-British-Government brother. Presumably it was all part of the “plan.” 

He saw a pile of early edition papers and pulled one out to show Sherlock. “Richard Brook? Who’s he?” The next thing he knew, they were tearing across the city again, leaving the police pursuit far behind.

 

#

 

Breaking into Kitty Riley’s flat had been easy, and now they sat and waited in silence. John was actually thankful for the quiet, dark room. The last 48 hours had been such a whirl of chaos and noise, the peace of the silent flat was welcoming. It was like being invisible.

Now, with no kidnapped children to worry about, no police officers hunting for them (here, anyway), he finally had a moment to realize … this was Moriarty’s end game. Whatever happened, the next few hours would be crucial—and he still had no idea what the man had planned. He just hoped Sherlock did.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” John asked the silence, when they’d been sitting some time.

“Hmm?” 

“That this is Moriarty again. That this is all part of his game. You haven’t mentioned his name to anyone until tonight.”

The silence deepened, and John waited patiently, watching the shadows move across the floor, letting the intimate darkness work its confessional magic. Then Sherlock said, “After his acquittal, nobody knew—knows—what to think about Jim Moriarty. I painted him as a mastermind in court and then they promptly let him go, and only the jury members truly knew why. To the rest of the world, it meant that, at the very least, I was mistaken where Moriarty was concerned. Had I told anyone that Moriarty was involved in this…”

John nodded his head. “It just would have fed into the idea that you’re just an attention-seeking fraud. Right. But then why mention Moriarty to Lestrade tonight?”

“What could it hurt?” Sherlock’s voice was wry, pained. “This is the final match of the final problem, John, and Lestrade deserved to know what is at stake.”

“But there was nothing he could do by then,” John said, protesting. “Maybe if he had known earlier…”

“What? He could have stopped this?” Sherlock gave a harsh laugh. “Nobody could have stopped this, John. Not even me.”

John sat, thinking hard. “But we had proof. The video I made when he threatened you at the flat…”

“…Could look like a business meeting between two colleagues.”

“Except that he was the one threatening you,” John said.

When he responded, Sherlock’s voice was infinitely patient. “We would not have been the first criminal confederates to disagree or resort to blackmail. No, it was better to just work the case and try to cover my bases.”

Now it was John’s turn for a bark of a laugh. “Right. And you did that how, exactly?”

“Didn’t you notice, John? I was actually _nice_ to Anderson at the school.”

John laughed again, but this time it was real. Bitter, because he had no idea what was coming, and poignant, because he didn’t know when he’d get to sit and laugh with his friend again, but still … real. 

For a moment, there was warmth. There was companionship. Friendship. There was Sherlock.

And then Sherlock shushed him. There was a noise in the hall. 

Kitty was home.

 

#

 

Everything moved very fast, then, and for a brief moment, even Sherlock had had trouble keeping pace. 

He freely admitted it. He had not expected the so-called Rich Brook to turn out to be Moriarty himself.

And, oh, the man’s acting was excellent. He gave the perfect performance of a desperate, wronged man seeking redemption. Sherlock could only watch with wonder as he pleaded with John to forgive him. “I know you’re a good man, Dr. Watson. Please, don’t hurt me,” indeed.

The man deserved a BAFTA.

All Sherlock could do was wait. He had to restrain himself while the man spouted his lies. Wait while John reeled under the onslaught. “I don’t understand, Sherlock. Explain this to me.”

This time, though, Sherlock gave John the grace of understanding that while he might be bewildered, he was still loyal. He might be clutching the papers like a drowning man reaching for a rope, but it was _Sherlock_ he was asking for help. He looked for all the world the very picture of an honest man faced with an unbearable truth.

Oh, Moriarty was _good_. And for a brief moment, as Jim Moriarty peeked from behind Richard Brook’s hands to give a triumphant look, Sherlock had to admit it. The man was brilliant. 

For one, brief moment, he was enjoying himself.

Well, not _enjoying_ himself, exactly. He was feeling too outmaneuvered at the moment to truly relish it, but for a moment, the glimmer, the challenge, the _fun_ was back. Like during the serial bomber case, when everything had been a delightful, delicious intellectual puzzle and everything had been exciting and fresh. 

Until Moriarty had wrapped John in a Semtex vest, of course. Or held a sniper’s rifle on him. Or caused him to be hit by a car. Or had planned on torturing him just to make Sherlock suffer. 

Because, of course, that’s when it had all changed, when it had become _this_. A trap, a frame-up, a vindictive display of genius that had been warped. Because there was no question that Moriarty was warped and broken in his genius. He was totally lacking in anything resembling a heart or a moral compass, whereas Sherlock knew exactly where his were. There was the heart he’d been born with, which had always taken the back seat to his brain, and then there was the heart he’d been gifted, in the form of this extraordinary army doctor floundering in Kitty Riley’s sitting room.

It was because of John that Sherlock was here.

He had failed too many times as a friend, and this time, he would do anything to protect him. Even now, as John yelled at Moriarty, as he staggered under the all-too-convincing lies Moriarty had put in the paper, Sherlock was himself staggered at John’s belief in him. He’d been wrong earlier, when he’d thought John was doubting, too. 

He’d been wrong about a lot of things, but he could not afford to be wrong about this.

And so he watched Jim Moriarty trying to twist John’s thoughts to meet his delusional reality, as he tried to pull John from his place at Sherlock’s side. It was part of his plan, after all, to leave Sherlock alone, with nowhere to turn but to his new pal, Jim. John was more resistant than Moriarty had expected, however, and it ended with him scurrying from the flat with John and Sherlock in hot pursuit.

The picture was complete, now. With the “existence” of Richard Brook and Kitty’s libelous story, all the pieces fell into place, and Sherlock stood in the middle of the street, struck momentarily dumb at the realization.

He was going to die.

 

#


	8. Chapter 8

John watched Sherlock head down the street and thought about following him, but then he glanced at the sheaf of papers he was clutching and, tightening his lips, turned and headed for the Diogenes Club. 

Getting past the doorman and into Mycroft’s private room was easy. (He was relieved that the heat sensors didn’t appear to be active tonight.) He just sat and waited patiently until Mycroft walked in.

“She has really done her homework, Miss Riley,” John said, firing his first shot across the bow without even looking, and feeling a surge of gratification when Mycroft’s steps stopped dead behind him. “Have you seen your brother’s address book lately? Two names. Yours and mine, and Moriarty didn’t get this stuff from me.”

Wearily, Mycroft came around and sat in front of him, still in his coat. “John, I…”

John just looked at him, trying to match the man in front of him with the confident man who almost personified the non-Royal aspects of the British Government. He was thinking back to just a few days ago, when Mycroft had asked him to protect Sherlock for him. It was only now John was seeing a glimmer of _why_.

“So, how does it work, then, your relationship? D’you go out for a coffee now and then, you and Jim? Your own brother, and you _blabbed_ about his entire life to this … maniac.” 

He kept his voice as calm as possible, but he couldn’t entirely keep the edge off. Just in the last few hours, he’d dealt with a terrified little girl, a distrustful detective inspector, an assassinated assassin, the arrest (betrayal) of his best friend—followed by his own—and their subsequent escape. Add Moriarty’s display at Kitty’s flat and, all in all, it had been a full day. John Watson was not in the mood for any of Mycroft’s usual holier-than-thou nonsense. Not now. Not with this article in his hand.

Yet, while Mycroft had looked weary and almost apologetic as he sat down, he was now watching John like a teacher waiting for his student to recite a lesson. He explained how they had taken Moriarty into custody after his last “game,” and how he had resisted their interrogation. (As if that were a surprise?) 

But still … as he talked, there was that look on his face, and John was reminded of The Plan—that ambiguous, undefined plan that Sherlock and Mycroft had that had to be kept secret from John. Obviously, sharing childhood stories with Moriarty had happened well before the man escaped custody, but if anyone was capable of playing a long game, it was the Holmes brothers. It would be just like them to give Moriarty enough rope to hang himself, all while making it look like they were not speaking to each other.

He realized that he had never figured out what had caused the rift between Sherlock and Mycroft. They had never been close, but they had spoken to each other. Sherlock had relied on his brother at Baskerville, which meant he had been confident that Mycroft would at least protect him from the legal ramifications of his actions. The point was that they had been speaking … then. Yet, that was when that the brothers had stopped.

Right when Moriarty escaped.

But what if it had all been a ploy? An attempt to make it look like there was a true rift between the brothers when, in fact, they were working for the same goal?

He’d missed some of Mycroft’s explanation, but he already knew it didn’t matter. No matter what his faults as a brother, there was no way Mycroft would be capable of NOT protecting his little brother from a criminal mastermind totally obsessed with destroying him. (And not just for the sake of the family name, either. Even John knew Mycroft cared more for Sherlock than that.) 

Some of this must have shown in his face, because Mycroft stopped speaking and the silence deepened between them. “This is your plan, then? The two of you? To give Moriarty enough ammunition that people would believe his one, big lie—Sherlock is a fraud—because the rest of it is true?”

Mycroft still didn’t speak, but his expression had grown slightly encouraging. John’s brain scrambled, trying to push this new information into some kind of order where it made sense. “But why? You’re the most over-protective older brother in the history of the world, so why would you do that? Why would you let _him_ do that? I would think you’d have him deep in a bunker somewhere.”

“Assuming I could keep Sherlock from escaping such a bunker, Dr. Watson, such an arrangement would still have left you … out in the cold, shall we say?”

John felt his eyes widen. No, he had to have heard that wrong. “Why would he do that?”

“I gave up trying to understand my brother’s motivations years ago, but you tell me—what could he gain by leaking a weakness to James Moriarty?”

A good question, John thought. A damn good question. Weaknesses were meant to be protected, not flaunted, otherwise you … “He’s drawing his fire,” he said. “Giving himself a weak front so that Moriarty will attack him there.”

Mycroft nodded slightly. “And?”

John’s brain was rushing frantically now, sorting through scores of military texts on strategy, as well as his medical knowledge of how diseases pounce on systemic weaknesses. “That way he knows where the attack will come, what his weakness will _be_ —or appear to be. He’s practically inviting the attack. He knew Moriarty would come after him anyway, but this way he has some control… and a better chance to win.”

“It’s a sound military strategy,” Mycroft said. He had not moved since he sat down, was still wearing his coat, still holding his umbrella, but there was a light in his eyes that had not been there a moment ago.

“And he couldn’t tell me … why?” John asked, weary himself now.

“Think about it, John,” Mycroft said gently. “Could anyone truly believe Sherlock to be weak while you stood at his side?”

John’s eyes flicked up, startled by the compliment, and even more surprised by the … affection? … in Mycroft’s eyes.

“Then why didn’t he drive me away altogether?”

“I don’t think he could bear to,” Mycroft said. “I believe he hoped that your being left in the dark would accomplish the same thing. If you were left ignorant of the nature of the attack, you wouldn’t be able to defend him properly. Not to mention that Moriarty wanted the pleasure himself—he wouldn’t hurt you if he had the chance to drive you away. Could you have acted so confused at Ms. Riley’s just now had you known what Sherlock was trying to do?”

“Wait, you know about that? No, of course you do.” John wiped his hand over his face and drew in one deep, long breath. “So, now what?”

“You continue to do what you do best, John. You stand by my brother—even if he _doesn’t know you’re there_.”

John nodded slowly. Of course. Whatever Sherlock had planned, he would hare off on his own at the end, trying to keep John safe, but … that didn’t mean he had to be alone.

But he also didn’t need to know that John was there.

 

#

 

John and Mycroft spoke for a while longer, and John accepted the offered ride to St. Barts when he received a text from Sherlock.

Sherlock was in his favorite lab, but—presumably in concession to the fact that he was technically a fugitive (and seriously, how hard could the police be searching if they didn’t check Sherlock’s lab at St Barts?)—he was sitting on the floor, fidgeting with a ball. 

“I got your message,” John said, looking around and trying to figure out why Sherlock had called, especially since he seemed more interested in sitting and thinking than talking. But then, John supposed he should be grateful—because this way _he_ could keep an eye on _Sherlock_ without him becoming suspicious. (Or needing to exhaust himself by being invisible, which was hard enough in front of Sherlock.)

Still, it had been a long day and despite providing a sounding board for Sherlock, there wasn’t much to do and eventually John fell asleep at his station.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep, but it was nearing dawn when his phone rang. “Yeah, speaking …”

Mycroft’s smooth voice came over the phone. “ _This call is supposed to be bad news about Mrs. Hudson_.”

John’s brain was still foggy, but the adrenalin kicked in quickly. Whatever was happening, whatever the Plan, it was happening _now_. “What? What happened, is she okay?”

“ _I’m supposed to be telling you she’s been shot, and to come to Baker Street right away, but I’m sure I needn’t tell you that this is just a ruse to get you out of the way. Really, you’ll want to head to the roof. Moriarty is already there._.”

“Oh my God, yes I’m coming right away.”

He disconnected and turned in a circle, trying to get his bearings as Sherlock asked, “Who was it?”

“Paramedics,” John told him. “Mrs. Hudson’s been shot.”

“What?” Sherlock’s face was almost entirely uninterested and the back of John’s mind was silently disbelieving that this was the man who thought _John_ was the worse actor of the two.

“One of the killers you managed to attract,” he snapped, playing his role. “Jesus, she’s dying, Sherlock. Come on, let’s go.”

“You go, I’m busy.”

“You’re busy?” And again, John was frankly appalled at the terrible dissembling. Sherlock’s lies were usually so much better than this. He didn’t know if he should be offended that Sherlock thought he would be this easy to get rid of, or worried that he was so intent on the Moriarty problem, this was the best acting he could manage.

“Thinking,” Sherlock said absently, “I need to think.”

“Thinking? Doesn’t she mean anything to you? You once half-killed a man because he laid a finger on her.”

“She’s just my landlady.”

Such a casual dismissal. Even knowing that Mrs. Hudson was unhurt, and that all of this was just a ploy to get John away from whatever was about to happen in the hospital, John was suddenly angry. He knew Sherlock was trying to put some distance (emotional and physical) between them. He knew he was supposed to just go along with this to allay Sherlock’s suspicions, but … really? He was really going to shrug off his obvious affection for Mrs. Hudson so casually? And John was supposed to just accept that?

And so his reply was angry, the words bitter in his mouth. “She’s dying, you _machine_ … sod this. Sod this. You stay here, on your own.” 

He was almost at the door when Sherlock said, “Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.”

The idiot. Even for a genius, this was one lesson he still hadn’t learned. “No,” John told him. “Friends protect people.”

He stormed through the door and was halfway down the hall before he remembered that he wasn’t leaving. He remembered that Sherlock’s entire objective here was to drive John away, and that he may well have spoken in such a hateful way for that sole reason. He could have dissembled and played along, saying something like “I’d love to come, but I’m the wanted fugitive and have to stay here to figure out what to do with Moriarty. You’re the medical man, anyway, so you go ahead and let me know how it goes.”

But no. Sherlock was deliberately hateful and was obviously counting on John to be carried away by his emotions—upset by this row and worried to death about Mrs. Hudson.

Drawing a deep breath, he pulled his gift tightly around him—it had never been more important to be unseen—as he headed for the roof.

He was almost to the roof when, below him, he heard a door opening quietly and then stealthy steps followed him up the stairs.

 

#


	9. Chapter 9

“Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.”

It was true, to a point, thought Sherlock. Alone was all he had now. He had been forcibly separated from his colleagues and his home and even now his best friend in the world was storming out the door, a bitter “Friends protect people” on his lips.

It’s true, John, he wanted to say. That’s why I’m doing this.

But it was better this way. Mycroft had come through with his timely phone call (finally justifying his existence), and John would be safely out of the way.

He would admit to a qualm about this. John had made a good point earlier that Bad Things tended to happen when they separated because Sherlock was trying to keep him safe, but what else was he supposed to do? It’s not like this exact situation had come up before. Moriarty was _trying_ to drive John away. He was _trying_ to isolate Sherlock. If Sherlock kept John close, it might drive Moriarty to violence solely because John had _not_ left.

No, in this case, John was safer away from here. 

His mobile chimed with a text and Sherlock no longer had time to dwell on John’s hurt feelings. 

The game, as they say, was on.

 

#

 

John edged out through the door and pulled out his camera, looking for a place to put it. Thanks to whatever magic Anthea had worked, he could not only record whatever was about to happen, but transmit it as well. He had to put it down, though—not only to keep his hands free, but because the footage (whatever it turned out to be) had to look like surveillance footage, not like there had been a third person on this roof.

What it would show, though, was that Moriarty was not only involved, he was in control, and Sherlock would be exonerated. He hoped.

All John knew for sure what that this _would_ be the final confrontation with Jim Moriarty. One way or another, this madman needed to be gone from their lives, from the world.

What he really needed was for everyone to see this video. Everyone. To see it, and to believe it. Not just those who believed in Sherlock—people like Mrs. Hudson or Greg Lestrade—but the disbelievers at the Yard. Donovan. Anderson. That berk of a chief superintendent. Every officer Sherlock had ever made feel like a tit, because they needed to know that all of this had been fake, all of it had been thrust upon Sherlock. The press needed to know. Kitty Riley. (Especially Kitty Riley.)

Everyone. 

He wished his gift could make that happen. He knew he could affect people’s perceptions, but he couldn’t change the way they thought (nor would he want to). But he wanted them to _watch_. He wanted to _make them see_ the truth, make them see that while Sherlock might be a self-centered, arrogant prat (because, well, he was), his heart was good—that he hadn’t wanted any of this. That he hadn’t _done_ any of this. 

If his gift could work on a recording, if it could work on a person watching it, that was what he hoped would happen—that they would watch and SEE. 

John held that thought tightly as he propped up the camera, just as the door opened behind him. Sherlock had teased him once, saying what he thought came true—and if that was true, John would infuse this video with a his own conviction. He would make it impossible to look away. He couldn’t convince people it was real, but he would make them watch, make them see … and then they would believe.

If he could.

But his gift could only do so much, he thought. So while he held that thought, that fond hope in the back of his head, he gave the camera a friendly, encouraging pat with his hand, and then concentrated on staying invisible to his best friend and the maniac boasting on the roof. 

 

#

 

Sherlock stepped out onto the roof to the strains of “Staying Alive.” He took a moment to appreciate the irony, because wasn’t that the entire objective? Well, that, and keeping _John_ alive.

He straightened his shoulders and walked forward, surprised to find Moriarty in an almost pensive mood. “You were the best distraction, and now I don’t even have you, because I’ve beaten you. And in the end, it was easy.”

Sherlock just waited, and before long the mood passed and Moriarty was on his feet, gloating again. (“Oh well … Just trying to have some fun.”) Sherlock humored him by going through the steps, the pieces of bait for the trap—Richard Brook, the mythical key code, all of it.

“Admit it,” Moriarty said, “You’ve had fun. I know you, Sherlock. You _relished_ the puzzles I left you, and now that we’ve got rid of all those annoying, ordinary people, you can come be so much _more_.”

“We?”

Moriarty looked surprised. “Of course. You must be as bored with them as I am. They’re all so predictable. Not worthy of you at all.” He was still circling, prowling around Sherlock like a panther certain of his kill. “Oh, I understand the appeal. All those admiring remarks, the wondering looks as they stand in awe of your genius. It’s gratifying, I know, but not _satisfying_ in the long term, wouldn’t you agree?

“How so?” 

“It’s like offering a dog the finest French cuisine, isn’t it? It might be grateful for the food, but it will never understand the nuances and subtleties of the flavor, or the genius that went into the preparation. So why waste it? Why waste your gifts on _pets_? Those ordinary people can’t appreciate how amazing you are. You need an … educated … audience.”

Sherlock refrained from shaking his head. “You believe that you are such an audience.”

“Of course. I’m the only one who could possibly appreciate you, Sherlock. I’m the only one who can truly understand _all_ your gifts.” Moriarty was in front of him now, an almost earnest look on his face. “Could I have chased them all away so easily if they’d really known how extraordinary you are? Even your loyal pet left you, off on some other scent. He didn’t even care enough to stay. All you have left is me.”

“You honestly believe that after all this, I would join you?” Sherlock allowed some surprise to filter into his voice. “After you’ve hounded me, threatened me, tried to ruin me … not to mention almost killing those children?”

Moriarty waved that away. “As if you care about those poor, bitty, sick children … Really, Sherlock! All I’ve done was show you how little you mean to your so-called friends. They were just dragging you down, making you ordinary. You can be so much more without them. You can be so much more with _me_.”

Now Sherlock did shake his head. “I’ve told you no before, and the answer has not changed.”

“This is your last chance to change your mind, Sherlock, because right now, you’ve got exactly two choices.”

Sherlock shrugged and made a face as if he were bored. “Join you, or you’ll kill me?”

Moriarty smiled a long, slow smile. “Oh no. Join me, or jump. You’ve picked a nice, tall building for it.”

“What?”

“Your suicide. I told you, I’ve beaten you, Sherlock. No matter what choice you make, your old life is over today. It’s already over. The only question is whether you continue breathing.”

Sherlock’s brain had stopped working. “My suicide,” he repeated blankly. 

“Of course.”

“To complete your story.”

Moriarty nodded. “I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairy tales … and pretty Grimm ones, too.” He peered over the edge. “So, which will it be, Sherlock? Come do magnificent puzzles with me, or pop off?”

Sherlock grabbed him, swinging him around toward the edge. “You’re insane!”

“Are you just getting that now?” Moriarty looked honestly surprised. “Fine, I’ll give you incentive. If you don’t choose, all of your friends will die.”

And what little brain function Sherlock had recovered disappeared. “John?”

“Everyone,” Moriarty said, eyes alight.

“Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade?”

“Everyone,” he repeated with relish. “Three gunmen. Three bullets. You decide right now or everybody you care about will die.”

Sherlock released him and stepped back, stunned. 

“It’s your choice, Sherlock. Either my people see you shake my hand or you jump. Nothing else will stop them. I’m certainly not going to call them off.”

“What’s to prevent me from pretending to join you and then making sure they’re safe?”

Polite surprise. “Do you really think you could do that? Oh no, there will be quite a long probationary period where it will be just you and me spending quality time together. You’ll enjoy it, though, I promise.”

Sherlock couldn’t keep the revulsion from his face. 

And turning, trying to ignore the quiver in his knees, he stepped up on the ledge and looked down.

 

#


	10. Chapter 10

It was all John could do to refrain from punching Moriarty and putting an end to his little showdown.

But no. He needed to get all of this on film. He needed Moriarty’s full admission that Sherlock had been framed before he could do anything … but, oh, how he wanted to punch the man. 

He watched as Moriarty taunted Sherlock, as he gloated and smirked and generally made an arse of himself. John was as surprised as Moriarty when Sherlock swung him around to lean over the edge of the building. John had never seen Sherlock so emotional, so unsure of … not himself, but of circumstances. Sherlock Holmes had almost never been in a situation he could not control—or at least understand. 

When Moriarty told Sherlock of the threat to John, he almost thought Sherlock would drop the man over from sheer shock. And … Mrs. Hudson? Greg? Frantically, John _reached_ across the city, trying to find them, trying to hide them, keep them safe. Please God, let Mycroft be acting on this already, as he watched the live video feed. Please … he couldn’t lose any more friends.

John’s blood pounded in his temples as he fought to control his temper, while maintaining … well, everything else. Keep himself hidden, and the camera. Hide Mrs. Hudson and Greg, if he could. And still, in the back of his head, maintain the effort to make the video _compelling_. He had no idea if it was working, if any of it was working, but he was trying. He had to. If Sherlock could bear this confrontation, these threats from Moriarty, John could witness it and do what he could to help.

Which is why his heart almost stopped when he saw Sherlock step up on the ledge.

 

#

 

Sherlock looked down, hoping that everything was in place.

“Can I have a moment, please? One moment of privacy?” he asked, trying to get Moriarty away from the edge long enough … none of this would work if he was standing too close.

“Of course,” the man said, sounding almost disappointed as he moved away. 

Sherlock glanced down again, taking note of the truck, the pavement, the people milling around. He recalled the plan and trusted that Molly would have everything in place.

And then he almost jumped out of his skin when he heard John’s voice right behind him. “If you even _think_ about jumping, Sherlock, I’m going to pull you back by your _hair_. Now, let’s blow this thing so we can all go home.”

John.

Of course. Of course John was there! How had he not realized? 

Sherlock’s mind unfurled from the tense knot it had become, invigorated with the knowledge that John was there and had his back. Together, they would figure this out.

The relief was so great, he began to laugh.

Suddenly, Jim’s game was fun again.

Turning on his heel he hopped off the ledge as Moriarty protested, “What? What’d I miss?”

“So many things, _Jim_ ,” Sherlock said, a smile spreading on his face. “ _I’m_ not going to call them off?”

“Oh. Oh, I see. You think you can make me do that?”

“I know I can.” 

“Even your big brother and all the king’s men couldn’t make me do something I don’t want to do.”

“But I’m not my brother, am I? I am _you_ ,” Sherlock said, staring down at him. “And you’re forgetting other things.”

Moriarty was squinting up at him, as if dazzled by the sun. “No, you’re ordinary. You’d rather kill yourself than come play with me. You’re on the side of the angels, wasting those fabulous gifts.”

Sherlock leaned in. “I may be on the side of the angels,” he told him, “But don’t think for one second that I am one of them.”

Moriarty’s eyes widened as he looked past Sherlock’s shoulder, eyes still screwed up as if suddenly near-sighted, unsure of what they were seeing. 

For a moment, he looked almost awed.

Then he breathed again and held out a hand, a surprising look of gratitude on his face. “I understand. Bless you,” he told Sherlock, who was once again feeling confused. “You think you can use your gift to save your friends. You think as long as I’m alive, you’ll be able to save them. Well, good luck with that.”

And to Sherlock’s utter surprise, Moriarty produced a gun, put it in his mouth, and pulled the trigger, leaving Sherlock reeling in shock as the echoes reverberated through the air.

 

#

 

“If you even _think_ about jumping, Sherlock, I’m going to pull you back by your _hair_. Now, let’s blow this thing so we can all go home.”

John saw the relief in Sherlock’s shoulders and almost felt like laughing with him. They were together, they were both still alive, and according to the earpiece Mycroft had given him, the snipers posted for Mrs. Hudson and Greg had been neutralized. The relief was almost unbearable.

The situation was still deadly, but not as deadly, and he watched with interest as Sherlock circled Moriarty now, roles reversed. The predator was now the prey—but Moriarty, for all his faults, was not weak. He would not give in easily.

And so, releasing his concentration on his distant friends, John focused on Moriarty, noting the faintest signs of confusion. He hadn’t expected Sherlock to find any way out of his trap, and while John had no idea how Sherlock could convince him to call off the snipers, Moriarty obviously did. 

For the first time, Moriarty was thrown off balance.

Eyes narrowed, John pounced on that. His gift was all about perception? Fine, then let Moriarty perceive Sherlock once and for all he was—a better man, a stronger one. An extraordinary one.

He made Sherlock _glow_.

Or rather, he intensified the sun in Moriarty’s eyes, making it brighter, more blinding. He made the light pouring past Sherlock’s shoulders burn until the criminal consultant was almost cringing in the light, blinking at its intensity even as he stared up at Sherlock in awe.

“You’re on the side of the angels,” he was saying, and without even thinking, John stretched the light, pulled at the man’s unbalanced mind so that suddenly, looking at Sherlock, he saw wings. 

It was all an illusion, of course, and he normally would never have even tried it. If Moriarty’s mind hadn’t been so broken, so malleable beneath its faulty genius, he doubted he could have done it, but John knew it had worked when Moriarty’s eyes widened. Now there was a hint of fear in his face.

When the man looked past Sherlock and right at John, John was just as surprised as he was. He had no idea what the man saw, but he wasn’t a soldier for nothing, and he knew a tactical advantage when he saw one, and so he took one, long, measuring step forward. 

“I understand. Bless you,” said Moriarty, as if he had suddenly glimpsed the answer to all the questions of the universe. He took Sherlock’s hand, eyes moving between him and John. “You think you can use your gift to save your friends. You think as long as I’m alive, you’ll be able to save them. Well, good luck with that.”

And with one last, fleeting look at John, he pulled out a gun and shot himself.

 

#

 

Sherlock reeled. How had that just happened? Moriarty had shot himself? His mind rushed to try to make sense of it. The snipers? How would this affect the snipers? 

Oh God, the _snipers_.

He spun in a circle to look at John, who looked as dumbfounded as he felt.

“John?”

“Sherlock … What …?”

John rushed forward to check Moriarty’s pulse, but Sherlock already knew. He was dead. And he had left him with no way out. The deal had been to join him or to jump. Handshake or not, he was sure that Moriarty lying dead did not qualify as “working together.” Even if Moriarty had killed himself. Maybe even especially because he killed himself.

His mind was picking up speed, now, rapidly skimming through all the possible actions, and possible interpretations, and could only come to one solution.

No matter what John could do, or Mycroft, there was no way to keep Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade safe from Moriarty’s snipers indefinitely. Even if they could avert the danger today, it would not keep them safe next week or next month. Moriarty had an entire _web_ of criminal networks. Taking out the immediate threat—those three snipers—would not keep them safe. 

Not for long. 

Not unless … He moved back to the ledge.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” John’s voice was sharp behind him.

Sherlock held out one hand. “I have to do this.”

“What? No!”

“It’s the only way.”

He heard John take a step forward and spun to face him. “Stay where you are,” he ordered. “Isn’t this what you told me just a little while ago? Friends protect people, you said. Well, this is me protecting you, John.”

John was shaking his head in disbelief. “No. You’re talking nonsense, Sherlock. Come down from there. We’ll figure something out.”

Sherlock managed a weak smile. “There’s really no time. This is the only way to keep all of you safe. There are snipers, John.”

John’s eyes grew desperate. “That’s taken care of, Sherlock. You don’t have to do this.”

“That’s only temporary. What about next week? Or next month? This is the only way. Trust me, John.”

John was looking numb, as if he were caught in a nightmare, but every muscle was tight, as if he would jump forward at any moment. “But … no. Sherlock, you can’t! We’ll think of something.”

“Moriarty already did. His moves are already made. You can’t outwit a dead man, John.”

“You could.”

Sherlock felt a surge of warmth at the conviction in John’s voice, but forced it down. He would do whatever it took to save this man. There was just no _time_. Moriarty had backed him into a corner and left him with no choice.

“Even I’m not that foolish, John.”

“No one would ever believe you were a fool, Sherlock—not unless you _jump_. You can’t do this!”

“It’s not foolish if there’s no choice,” Sherlock told him gently. “Just … don’t follow me this time.”

And for a long moment, he met John’s eyes and then, as John surged forward, he turned … and he fell.

 

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ouch. This was so hard to write—especially once I realized that Sherlock was going to have to jump after all—or that he _thought_ he still needed to jump, which amounts to the same thing. But still—I’m kind of ridiculously pleased at how seamlessly John’s gift fit into the moment where Sherlock begins to laugh … it’s not _that_ conceited if I pat myself on the back for that, is it?


	11. Chapter 11

“Sherlock!”

John was rushing across the roof even before Sherlock’s feet had left the ledge, but it was already too late.

He stared down at the activity on the pavement for an endless a moment while Mycroft’s voice sounded in his ear, frantically questioning what had just happened. But John couldn’t bring himself to answer, and after a time, he slumped to the roof, leaning back against the wall and putting his head in his hands.

He was there when the team of Mycroft’s men rushed onto the roof five minutes later.

He was still there when they walked over and gently lifted him to his feet to lead him away.

Sherlock had had a plan, he told himself. He wouldn’t really have killed himself, would he?

All he knew at this moment was that Moriarty was dead and that Sherlock had jumped from a building to lie still and unmoving on the pavement far (far) below.

He did see Anthea, at one point, collecting the camera with a nod for him, so at least that had worked. Mycroft’s voice in his ear had already reassured him that the video was already being passed along to the press and New Scotland Yard to exonerate Sherlock. 

But all John could think about was that Sherlock had still _jumped_.

All John could do was desperately hope that this outcome was something Sherlock had somehow, miraculously planned for. Surely Mycroft would tell him if Sherlock weren’t dead … wouldn’t he? 

Because if not … he didn’t want to think … couldn’t bear to think … how close they had come to saving him. Sherlock hadn’t given him a chance to tell him the snipers had been brought down. There hadn’t been time to tell him _anything_. He had just jumped.

Sherlock had jumped.

And John hadn’t saved him.

 

#

 

Ouch.

No matter how effective a plan you might have, clearly jumping off a building was still going to _hurt_ , Sherlock thought as he lay on the pavement and let his homeless network and Molly’s people do their work. He barely felt the prick of the paralytic injection ensuring he wouldn’t inadvertently move and ruin the whole charade.

All he could think about was John up on the roof. How had John gotten to the roof? He was supposed to be safe with Mrs. Hudson … well, not that she was safe at the moment. How hadn’t he seen that Moriarty would use her as a target? Or Lestrade? All he could do was hope that Moriarty had been telling the truth and that the snipers were called off by his jump. 

How long had John been there? Had he heard Moriarty’s threat? Did he realize why Sherlock had had to jump? 

Of course he did. He _had_ been there. Sherlock would have smiled at the memory of John’s voice coming from behind him, threatening him if he dared to jump. John must have been there the entire time—presumably had never gone back to Baker Street at all. When would he ever stop underestimating John Watson? 

He had been wheeled into the morgue by now, and was met by Molly, who gently closed his eyes with a whispered “Not long now, Sherlock.” 

He could hear the voices around him, hear the chaos, but his ears were tuned for one voice in particular. He knew he could trust Molly to keep John away, and only hoped that John’s state of shock would be such as to make him malleable rather than belligerent. 

That had been the point, after all—or much of it, at least. That John’s reactions had to be totally natural to be convincing. He _had_ to be shocked and surprised, otherwise the entire fiction of Sherlock’s death would fall apart. Not that Sherlock had expected … this. He had been prepared to fake his death to defeat Moriarty. The man would have been satisfied with nothing less. He had not seen the threat to the others, though. He had supposed that Moriarty would be satisfied with ruining Sherlock. He had thought he’d done everything he needed to make sure the others remained safe.

He cast his mind back to that last conversation, and then paused. John had had an ear-piece. Not a standard headset like for a phone (which John hated wearing), but one like Mycroft’s people would wear. 

Could Mycroft be aware of the events from the roof already? Sherlock had set his own phone to record the entire confrontation, but never dreamed that Mycroft would know so soon. Sneaky John. 

He really did need to stop underestimating him.

Just as soon as he could move again.

 

#

 

“No, Molly, I understand, but I _need_ to see him.”

“I can’t let you do that, John. We’ve only just brought him in. You need to give us some time…”

It was all John could do not to push past her. “I’m a doctor, Molly. I’ve seen dead bodies before. I’ve seen dead _friends_ before. I was in a war, remember? I just need to see him.”

“I understand that, John, but I can’t …”

“Perhaps it would be best if you allowed this, Miss Hooper.” Mycroft’s calm voice eased into the conversation. John wasn’t sure if he was more reassured or terrified that Mycroft was here.

“But I can’t. I mean, not yet. He’s not … that is …” Molly visibly collected herself, blinking rapidly. “John, I’m not letting you see him like this. Give me ten minutes to clean him up a bit. Trust me. It will be … better.”

Trust me. Just what Sherlock had said before … right. John gave a stiff nod and took a small step backwards. “Ten minutes.” 

He felt a warm hand on his good shoulder but couldn’t bring himself to turn to face Mycroft. “Was this all part of the plan, then?”

“It was something he considered as a possibility, yes,” Mycroft told him softly. “But thanks to you, he achieved his most important goals.”

“Goals?” John could barely choke out the word as he spun to face him. “Sherlock is _dead_.”

He hoped with all his heart that Mycroft would deny this.

But, no, Mycroft was nodding. “But you are not. Neither are Mrs. Hudson and Detective Inspector Lestrade, while James Moriarty most definitely is. Not only that, but thanks to your video, Sherlock’s name will be cleared, restoring his reputation—which I know meant a great deal to you. Already it is … going viral, I believe is the phrase … on YouTube. People seem almost compelled to pass it on—it’s quite riveting.”

John just stared at him blankly. He would truly never understand the Holmes brothers. “What does any of that matter?” he asked as the hall way doors swung open again. “What does it matter if it cost Sherlock his life?”

“It matters, John, because—while he would have preferred to live, I’m sure—saving his own life was not as important to him as saving yours.”

But what about my goals, John wanted to scream. “Maybe so, Mycroft, but all I wanted to do was to protect him and he’s _lying in there DEAD_!” 

He stared up at Mycroft, breathing hard (too hard), and then saw the flicker in the older man’s eyes as he realized what he had just said. John may have spent the last eighteen months trying to keep Sherlock safe, but it had been Mycroft’s primary mission since he was seven. Now they had both failed. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Mycroft gave a small nod. “There’s no need. You did more for Sherlock than I could have dreamed possible, John. The man he was before he met you would never have jumped—would never have had people he cared enough to save.”

“Bloody hell, Mycroft,” John gasped, feeling as if he’d just been kicked in the stomach. “Then what was the point of any of it? He would have lived if he’d never met me? Jesus Christ…”

“He would have breathed, John, but I think it’s quite obvious that he never truly lived until you became his friend. I can say without reservation that he considered it a fair trade.”

“That’s true,” Greg said from the door. He had come in several minutes ago, but held back, not wanting to interfere. “Sherlock was a better man for knowing you, John. Remember what I told you the night we met?”

John nodded, feeling his eyes burn as his lurking headache began to find its way past the haze of shock. “That he was a great man, and that someday, if we were very, very lucky, he would be a good one.”

“I saw the video, John,” Greg told him. “I don’t think there’s any question in anyone’s mind that he was, in fact, good. I still can’t believe…”

“Even Donovan?” John asked harshly. “Anderson?”

“Even the Chief Superintendent—assuming the swelling has gone down enough for him to see the video, too.” He turned to Mycroft. “May I offer my sincere apologies and condolences, Mr. Holmes? This is my fault…”

Mycroft sighed. “You too, Inspector? As I was saying to John, this is nobody’s fault but James Moriarty.”

“But I’m responsible for…”

“I’m sure all of us contributed to this tragedy in our own ways, Inspector, but you are less to blame than I. The final responsibility, though, rests squarely on James Moriarty.” Mycroft looked toward the morgue door. “Ah, Miss Hooper. May we see him, now?”

 

#

 

Sherlock could hear the voices in the hallway as Molly sponged the blood from his face, layering ice packs and cooling blankets over him. “They insisted on seeing you, which, I know, won’t surprise you. I mean, nothing ever does, does it? Or seems to. But. That is, they need to see you, but I’ll try to keep it as short as I can.” 

She brushed some more powder over his face and ran some blue balm over his lips. 

All Sherlock could do was strain to hear the voices in the hallway. John. Mycroft. And … Lestrade? So quickly? It sounded like a circus of self-recriminations, but he could hear Mycroft’s Calming Tones that he had been practicing since he was seven. 

He would just have to assume that Molly and Mycroft would take care of things.

He found he was grateful that his eyes were closed.

He found he couldn’t bear to see John’s face. 

 

#


	12. Chapter 12

“You have to tell him,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock shook his head as he twiddled with his cane. How had he not realized that—plan or no plan—jumping off a building meant he might get hurt? Though he supposed a sprained ankle was a small price to pay.

No, the real cost was John. Sherlock found himself turning a dozen times a day to speak with him, only to realize he wasn’t there. That he couldn’t be there. It wasn’t safe. He had explained this to Mycroft multiple times. “As long as Moriarty’s web is intact, John is in grave danger, Mycroft. I can’t afford to draw attention to him.”

“The man can become invisible, Sherlock. I think he can barely see himself at this point; an assassin doesn’t stand a chance.”

“But you are keeping an eye on him?” he demanded.

“We’re trying, but … it’s becoming difficult. You know his gift, Sherlock. I don’t think he’s left the flat without using it. His phone is usually turned off, as well, since he obviously doesn’t want to talk to anyone. It makes it hard to say with any surety where he is at a given time.”

“Then what good are you?” Sherlock asked, frustration burning in his voice. He wanted to get up and pace, but his ankle was too cranky to allow it. 

“My point, Sherlock, is that John is quite effectively hidden as it is. Even knowing his gift, we can barely track him. The remnants of Moriarty’s organization doesn’t stand a chance. And … Sherlock … he _deserves_ to know.”

“Why, Mycroft? You know as well as I what is at stake—as well as the dangers of what I must do. Why raise false hope that I’ll be able to return? Isn’t that cruel?”

“Cruel, Sherlock? No, _this_ is cruel.”

Sherlock blinked, reminded of that first meeting with Jim from IT, but then shrugged it off. Mycroft clearly just didn’t understand John. He was a survivor. He would manage—and he said as much as he stood to limp back to his room.

 

#

 

Everything blurred.

As Mycroft had said, the video of the rooftop confrontation had gone viral. John didn’t know if that was because of his attempts to make it compelling or just because it _was_. He really didn’t know. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to watch it.

He was very much in the minority, though. His blog comments had exploded with sympathy and outrage until he had been forced to turn them off. His phone rang constantly with calls from people who’d seen it—friends, family, total strangers—so that he had finally turned it off, too. 

It wasn’t like there was anybody he wanted to talk to.

The only person he wanted to talk to was dead.

A part of him was still trying to cling to hope that Sherlock had somehow beat the odds, but John knew what he’d seen. Sherlock had, in fact, jumped off the building. John had, in fact, seen his body—cold and with no pulse. John had, in fact, attended his funeral. Sherlock was, in fact, no longer here.

You couldn’t argue with facts, after all, and the longer he went without body parts in the fridge or volatile experiments on the kitchen table, the more the unpalatable facts sunk in.

Sherlock really was gone.

It didn’t matter that John was being overwhelmed by people trying to contact him. It didn’t matter that the Chief Inspector (sporting a wonderfully bruised and swollen nose) had apologized in person. It didn’t matter than Donovan and Anderson were practically beside themselves trying to back-pedal, swearing up and down they’d always had faith in Sherlock. (No doubt they would claim that ‘freak” was an endearment.) The obsequiousness should have made him sick.

But nothing mattered.

Nothing mattered, and so … John faded. 

 

#

 

Sherlock strolled down the street, phone to his ear, looking for all the world like there was nothing wrong. Back in the distance, sirens started to wail. “What is it? I’m rather busy.”

“We’re having … trouble … finding John.” 

“What do you mean trouble?” Sherlock’s voice practically froze the phone’s plastic casing.

“I think you know exactly what I mean, and I can’t be more specific over the phone.”

“We’ve already discussed this…”

“Yes, and in the time that has passed, things have gotten worse.”

A pause. “I’ll catch a train tonight.”

 

#

 

With no reason to talk to anyone, and certainly no desire to be seen or questioned (he had somehow become a media sensation since Sherlock’s jump), John found himself relying more on his gift than he had in years. At first he just used it to get in and out of the flat without being accosted by the hordes of reporters lying in wait, but as the gray, meaningless days went on … he used it more and more.

He found he couldn’t face 221B alone any longer, and made a temporary move to Harry’s couch the day after the funeral. That wouldn’t last more than a few days, he knew, since they got on each other’s nerves more than ever. He hated to impose on his friends, though—it’s not like he was very good company at the moment. So, when one of his still-deployed army buddies offered his currently empty flat, John was quick to accept. (He was a little awed that the video of Sherlock’s Jump had spread all the way to Afghanistan—not to mention grateful that his old mates still considered him a friend.)

Little by little, he began to feel like a ghost, haunting his own life. It wasn’t that he was avoiding his friends, exactly, and he wasn’t consciously trying to hide (except from reporters), but … the effect was the same. He was just going through the motions, and before he realized it, it had been weeks since he’d actually talked to another person.

Not that it mattered.

Without the one man who had always seen him, he was invisible once more.

 

#

 

Sherlock strode into the room, practically snapping with energy. “What have you done wrong now, Mycroft?”

“I told you, Sherlock—things have gotten worse. Here. Look at this.” Mycroft tapped at his computer and some CCTV footage of a grocery store appeared on the screen. 

Nothing happened.

“What is this?”

“According to his bank records, this is footage from Tuesday—the last time John bought groceries.”

Sherlock stared at the screen. “And?”

Mycroft paused the video. “Do you _see_ John, Sherlock?”

He just blinked at his brother. “No. I presume he has not arrived on camera yet.” But suddenly, Sherlock was unsure.

Mycroft pointed to the tiniest patch of blurred footage, near one of the chip-and-PIN machines. Then, punching a few keys, an infrared overlay appeared, showing the shape of a man. “That’s John, Sherlock. Right there. Except you can’t see him. In fact,” he continued as he leaned back to study his brother’s face, “Nobody has seen him in weeks. At all. Nobody. If it weren’t for his regular grocery purchases showing on his bank statement, I would have no way of knowing he was even alive.”

Sherlock was still staring at the completely boring scene on the computer screen. Nobody had seen John in … “How is this possible?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows lifted. “You knew of his gift before I did, Sherlock, and certainly have studied it more. How do you think?”

“But…”

“You know as well as I that his gift manifests most strongly when he’s feeling invisible, Sherlock. You also know how badly he needed … needs … the adrenalin rush that comes from living with you. I tried to tell you that he needed to know the truth, but you refused to listen, and now look at the poor man.” Mycroft’s voice dipped and sharpened as he added, “Oh, but of course, you can’t, can you? Because the man has become invisible—even to himself.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Sherlock tried to snap, but his voice quavered.

Mycroft just watched him with that smug patience Sherlock had hated when he was a child, trying to figure out lessons Mycroft had long-since mastered. “I believe it is not possible to go for weeks feeling invisible, without it having a detrimental effect on one’s psyche, Sherlock. Particularly for a man grieving for his best friend who _jumped off a building right in front of him_.”

“And I’ve told you. It’s for his own good. He was there, Mycroft. He knows what Moriarty was threatening. He’s seen the video, hasn’t he?”

“Sherlock!” He looked up, surprised to see his unflappable older brother suddenly sparking with well-controlled … rage? “He _filmed_ that video. He was on the roof before you were, Sherlock, ready to do whatever it took to keep you safe. Just like you were willing to do for him.” 

“Which is exactly the point, Mycroft!” Sherlock was on his feet now, too. “I’m doing this to keep him safe! What part of that don’t you understand?”

Mycroft pointed at the computer screen. “Is that man safe, Sherlock? Is he anything resembling well or healthy? He’s dying in tiny, incremental stages because he believes that you are dead and you won’t extend him the basic human decency of telling him that you are alive.”

The brothers stared at each other for a long moment and then Sherlock sighed and said, “What would you have me do, Mycroft? Moriarty…”

“Right now, the remnants of Moriarty’s organization are the least of John’s worries, Sherlock. I told him that you would have been happy with the events of that day because you had saved him, isn’t that true?”

Sherlock’s voice was quiet. “You know it is, Mycroft. Defeating Moriarty and saving John was the whole point.”

Mycroft’s voice was equally gentle as he replied, “And what do you think John’s goals were?”

Sherlock’s breath hitched in his lungs. “To save me?” 

“Yes,” Mycroft said on the quietest of breaths. “His sole purpose for days had been to protect you and keep you safe. He confronted me after your visit with Kitty Riley because he’d figured out where Moriarty had gotten his information, when he realized why you were inviting an attack. He was on the roof during your confrontation and not only did he record the entire thing, but he somehow infused the video with conviction and an almost irresistible compulsion to watch and share. It went viral within an hour of it being posted.” 

Sherlock shrugged and tried to move away, but Mycroft actually grabbed his arm and continued, his voice intent. “When Moriarty mentioned the danger to Mrs. Hudson and Detective Inspector Lestrade, John somehow reached across the city and hid them until my people were able to dispatch the snipers—don’t ask me how—and all this while he kept himself hidden from you and just watched as you were taunted by Moriarty. He performed _miracles_ , Sherlock, and he did all of this because he was desperate to keep you safe.”

Sherlock felt like his lungs had stopped functioning. Why had Mycroft not told him this before? 

“And after all that,” Mycroft went on, “When all the immediate dangers were taken care of and you were actually both safe, you _jumped anyway_ , Sherlock … right in front of him. How would you have felt if Moriarty had turned that gun on John instead of himself, so that all your efforts were wasted at the last second, just as you thought you had won?”

Finally flooded with the realization of exactly what he had done, Sherlock sank back into his chair, still staring at Mycroft. 

“What should I do?”

 

#


	13. Chapter 13

“You’re a hard man to find, John.”

John blinked at the man standing by the black car as he stepped out of Tescos, plastic bag swinging from his hand. He started to speak, but had to stop and clear his throat and try a second time. “Mycroft?”

“I wondered if I might have a word?” Mycroft gestured to the car and, resigned, John nodded, sliding into the backseat with his shopping. 

As soon as Mycroft was settled, the car moved smoothly into traffic. John just waited, swallowing to try to moisten his dry throat. He couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d spoken to anyone. 

“How have you been, John?”

John shrugged, not really having an answer for that. “What do you want, Mycroft?”

“I can’t check on you? Sherlock would never forgive me if something happened to you.”

John just tilted his head wearily. “It’s not like he can do anything about it now, can he? Thank you for asking, though. I’m fine. Was that all?”

He met the other man’s eyes briefly, but dropped them, turning slightly to stare out the window. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d been in a car, either. Or anywhere, really. When was the last time he’d left Andrew’s flat for anything other than a quick run for basic necessities?

“You’re not working at the surgery, anymore, John. So far as I’ve been able to determine, you have not returned any phone calls or responded to any texts or emails in weeks. Nobody seems to know where you’re living—not even Mrs. Hudson. Not even me. And oddly, nobody has seen you—quite literally. I am concerned.”

John resisted the urge to close his eyes. “I’m fine, Mycroft,” he said again, not really believing it himself. He knew he wasn’t, not really, but he was doing his best. He wasn’t hurting himself or anyone else. He was eating regularly and wasn’t spending his time in a drunken stupor. There was no-one relying on him that he had let down.

Well, not since …

Better not to think about that.

So what if he’d been keeping to himself? He wasn’t being productive, perhaps, but he wasn’t being destructive, either, so where was the harm? It was easier than being gawked at every time he left the flat. “How did you find me, anyway?”

Mycroft smiled, looking faintly smug and pleased with himself. “Your bank card. Its use at this shop is the only activity you seem to have done in weeks.”

John felt the faintest quiver of amusement. “Don’t tell me you’ve been sitting outside for days waiting for me.”

A small smile from the other side of the seat. “Thankfully, you have very regular habits, John. I’ve only been waiting an hour.”

“How did you know I was leaving the shop?”

“The automatic doors opened right after your bank card was charged. And I installed an infrared camera last week.” His tone implied that John had been silly to ask which, knowing Mycroft, was probably true. “It’s good to see that you’re eating properly.”

“I am a doctor, after all,” John said, and then subsided into quiet for a few more minutes. 

The silence dragged behind them, measuring the distance under the car tires as they maneuvered the streets of London. Finally John asked, “So, as you see, I’m alive and taking care of myself. Not drunk in a gutter or fallen off a bridge. Are we done?”

“Your friends are worried about you, John.”

“My friends can manage fine without me. I’ll let Mrs. Hudson know I’m all right, though—you’re right, I hate for her to worry.”

“You haven’t seen your therapist,” Mycroft said.

Another tiny flash of amusement. “You told me to fire her, remember?”

“This might not have been the best time to listen.”

John pulled in a deep breath, humor gone, and ready to be done with this conversation now. “Yes, well, that’s my business, isn’t it? If you could just let me out here, I’ll find my own way home.”

He wasn’t surprised that the car continued, tires hissing on the wet pavement. He wasn’t going to be let out until Mycroft was finished with him. 

“If you’re unhappy with your current therapist—as I’m sure you are, as you haven’t seen her in months—I would like to propose a substitute.”

“Please tell me you’re not going to suggest yourself.”

Mycroft gave him one of his slow smiles. “Hardly, but I do highly recommend this gentleman. He’s very particular about the clients he accepts, but has expressed an interest in your case. I should warn you that the utmost discretion is required on your part.”

“Discretion? For seeing a therapist? What, is this 1950 again?”

“No, it’s just necessary for _this_ therapist. His methods are sometimes considered unusual and he has his critics, so he tries to avoid unnecessary attention. In fact, I would strongly suggest you arrive as … quietly … as possible.”

“You’re assuming I’m going,” John said, one eyebrow lifted. Mycroft Holmes, of all people, pushing him to see a therapist?

“I feel quite confident in saying that this man can help you, John. In fact, he may be the only one who can.” Mycroft handed him a folded piece of paper. “That is his address, and I’ve set up an appointment for you tomorrow at 10:00. I strongly urge you to go. I think you’ll find his observations to be … quite extraordinary.”

John suddenly found himself short of breath as he stared at the slip of paper in his hand. Mycroft couldn’t mean … was he? … No, Mycroft was many things, but he wasn’t cruel enough to play with John, not now. Either this simply was a very good therapist who might help or … it might be … more.

He looked up at the other man, trying to keep his face blank, but knowing he was failing utterly. He tried to rein in the hope he felt blossoming there, heating his cheeks, brightening his eyes, but it wasn’t possible. It was there and it had taken root, and if this turned out be false, it was going to kill him.

Mycroft just met his eyes, that small smile still on his lips, and then he gave the tiniest of nods. 

And just like that, the world exploded with color.

 

#

 

John barely slept that night. 

He told himself that he was being foolish. Told himself not to get his hopes up, not to (for God’s sake _not to_ ) expect anything other than a no doubt extremely expensive therapist seeing him out of Mycroft’s sense of guilt.

And yet … Mycroft’s phrasing had been so very … suggestive.

But he couldn’t afford to hope. He was just about managing to cope as it was. Dashed hopes would kill him.

But, still, there was the chance … And so the long night went—back and forth, up and down, a roller-coaster of despair and hope. Not that John had been sleeping well these past three months as it was. 

He was out of bed by five, forcing himself to eat breakfast, to shower and dress with his usual care before he finally let himself out into the cold morning light by 5:45.

He made no conscious decision about where he was going. He just knew he couldn’t sit still and so he walked. And walked. Until he found himself outside the therapist’s office, three hours ahead of his appointment.

This was ridiculous, he told himself. What was he thinking? What was Mycroft thinking, sending him here? Sherlock was dead. It was absurd to hope for anything different. He’d seen him jump off a building, after all. He’d seen him dead in the morgue. He’d attended his funeral. His best friend was dead.

Dead.

He turned and started to march away, shaking his head in frustration. It was pointless, his being here. He had managed to recreate his life once before, when everything he’d worked and studied and fought for had been ripped away by an Afghani bullet, but he couldn’t do it twice. He couldn’t recreate the man he’d been before knowing Sherlock. He wasn’t entirely sure there was enough of John Watson left to start over a third time. There was just no point.

He stopped at the intersection, waiting for the light to change, and was distracted by the aroma of coffee from a shop on the corner. Well, fine. He’d been walking long enough that a cup would taste good.

Minutes later, he was sitting on a bench in the park across from the office, trying not to think. It was just a bench, after all, like any other. Its location was meaningless, wasn’t it? Its proximity to Mycroft’s “extraordinary” therapist was pure coincidence. John was just here to drink his coffee and sit in the sun, like an old pensioner with nothing better to do than to dwell on the good old days when he held glory in his hands. 

He cradled the bitter cup in his hands and closed his eyes, remembering.

“You’re early.”

John opened his eyes, blinking up at the tall shape silhouetted in front of him, surprised at being noticed. Remembering … he closed them again, unable to bear it, unable to look. 

He didn’t move as the bench creaked, shifting under the weight as someone sat next to him. 

“Are you planning to come inside?”

John tried not to flinch at the smooth baritone, so familiar, even after months of silence. This is what hope feels like, he told himself, trying not to fall into the swirling pit of raw emotion that had opened beneath his heart. Or rather, this is not hope, not quite, not yet. It’s more like pre-hope. It’s the moment where you decide whether to take the leap or to stay where it’s safe—dark and lonely though safety might be.

It was terrifying.

“I haven’t decided,” he finally answered.

“It’s a nice office,” the voice suggested. “A little plain, not enough clutter for my taste, but perfectly adequate. There is a kettle for making tea, for example, though mine is never as good as the tea my best friend used to make.”

For a moment, John could almost taste the PG Tips on his tongue, scent the aroma in his nose as he remembered the last time he and Sherlock had shared a cuppa, just before Greg arrested him a million lifetimes ago. “It always tastes best with the right company,” he said. 

“It does, though even mine is better than that coffee. The barista at that shop always brews it too strong. Even at 7:30, the only people in that shop are either desperate for caffeine or have no taste.”

“Well, I am desperate, if not necessarily for caffeine.” John huffed a laugh. “It doesn’t matter, though. Nothing has tasted right for me in months.” 

Carefully, without turning his head, he opened his eyes, taking in the familiar outline in his peripheral vision. 

“How are you at making tea?” There was a faint, wistful flavor to the words.

“My flatmate … my friend … never complained. Or at least, not about the tea.”

“He complained about other things, then?”

“He complained about everything,” John said. “Oddly enough, I miss that now. Frustrating though he was, he was my best friend. I would have done anything for him.”

There was a pause, and then the man sitting next to him asked, his voice stiff with hesitation, “Would have?”

John nodded. “He died. I did everything I could to save him, but he still jumped. He was always there for me when I needed him, but when it was my turn—when it mattered—I couldn’t …” He swallowed hard as the words jammed in his throat. “I failed him.”

“You performed _miracles_ ,” he was told firmly. “He just didn’t wait to see them. He was too impatient, too desperate. He didn’t have enough faith … but that wasn’t your fault.”

John took a sip of coffee, letting its bitterness rest on his tongue, before spilling into his words. “Maybe not, but it doesn’t change the fact that he didn’t trust me enough to let me help, to believe that I _could_ help. He shut me out and even when I had … even though I … he still jumped.”

Somehow John was on his feet and facing Sherlock. “ _You_ still jumped. You couldn’t wait _one minute_ for me to tell you it was safe? You couldn’t give me the chance? I was standing right there and you bloody _jumped_ , as if I didn’t even matter!”

“You’ve got it backwards, John,” he told him, eyes intent as only his could be. “It was solely _because_ you mattered that I jumped. It was the only way I knew to keep you safe. There was no other way I could think of to keep Moriarty’s men from killing you.”

Sherlock was standing now, elegant as always in his tailored suit, but thinner, John noted, with new lines on his face. “But you’re right—I didn’t give you a chance. I knew … who better? … what you can do, and I ignored it. How could I have known what you’d done? Even you …” 

Sherlock’s voice had drifted into something approaching awe, and John almost staggered at the unexpectedness of it. “John. You saved _everyone_. You did. _You_ recorded the video that people can’t stop watching. _You_ protected Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. You even helped me convince Moriarty—though I’ve still no idea how you did that, and you know how I hate not knowing. But, John, you saved all of us.”

John’s voice had disappeared again. “But not you,” he whispered. “I couldn’t save you.”

He was shaking now. At some point he’d dropped the (dreadful) coffee and could feel the damp in his socks and jeans from where it splashed. He didn’t react when Sherlock took one long step toward him, grasping his forearms in his strong (warm, alive) fingers to steady him. “But you did. I may have jumped, but you’re the one who saved me, John. Without you there … it all would have ended very differently. It’s like you said. Friends protect each other.”

The words wormed into John’s ear and twined their way down the brain stem, spreading through his nervous system, bringing a sense of warmth he hadn’t felt in months. But still, he protested. “But I _failed_.”

“Didn’t I tell you to trust me?”

John nodded.

“Then believe me, John Watson. You saved me, just like you did at the pool, just like you’ve done dozens of times. You are the best friend I could ask for, and you’re the one who taught me that’s what friends _do_. You have never let me down, not once.” 

Sherlock looked at him with suspiciously bright eyes, and then glanced down to the spilled cup. “Now, why don’t you come up to the expensive office Mycroft found for us and make us both some tea. I’ve been dreaming about your tea for months.”

Flooded with the warmth from Sherlock’s usually cool eyes, John looked away. It was only then he noticed that the people passing by were glancing at them. “Sherlock, people are watching you talking to yourself. And … aren’t you supposed to be dead?”

“I’m not talking to myself, John. I’m talking to you.” 

“That doesn’t count, Sherlock. Nobody can see me. Nobody’s seen me in months, except for Mycroft. And you, apparently.”

Sherlock’s lips pulled up into a smile. “John, everyone can see you.”

Startled, John looked around again and realized that, yes, the passersby were looking at him as much as at Sherlock. “How …?”

“Well, what reason do you have to hide anymore?” Sherlock asked. “Now, how about that tea? I even bought milk.”

John just nodded, too full of relief to be able to speak.

And together, they turned and walked toward the office, leaving the bitter dregs of despair and loneliness spilled on the grass behind them.

 

#


	14. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had planned on ending this with chapter 13—and, in fact, still think it’s a practically perfect ending—except … as a reader, I’m always wanting more, and I find as a writer I often have trouble stopping while there are still questions. So I decided to write one extra chapter to tie up a few loose ends and … well, here it is. A 3,000-plus word behemoth of a chapter which hopefully you’ll appreciate. If not, just go back and re-read those last few paragraphs of chapter 13 and stop there. Really, that works, too.

John followed Sherlock inside and up the stairs to an elegant, sun-filled office. He barely glanced around the room, noting the two comfortable chairs and the tea tray set and waiting.

All his attention was on Sherlock.

He’d already noted the man was thinner, but there were other changes, too. His hair was lighter, almost ginger, and brushed straight instead of falling in his eyes in a curly mop. There was a small scar on one cheekbone—barely noticeable—but also a small limp that hadn’t been there before.

The essentials, though … those had not changed. This was Sherlock Holmes, back from the dead against all odds. 

John inhaled sharply, overwhelmed by, well, everything. Relief that Sherlock had survived. Anger that he had jumped anyway. Disbelief. Affection. Exhaustion. Joy. All of it poured out of his beleaguered heart and pooled briefly in his stomach before flowing down to wash away the strength in his knees. He sat heavily in one of the chairs and leaned forward, head in his hands.

“John? Are you all right?”

“Just give me a minute, Sherlock. It’s not every day your best friend returns from the dead.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said softly. 

John just sat and listened as Sherlock moved away. He registered the click of an electric kettle. “I thought you wanted me to make the tea?”

“Only if you’re feeling up to it. It’s the company that matters, after all, and it’s not like I’m incapable…”

John drew in one more deep breath. “Not so long as you don’t get distracted, at any rate, by a case or a serial killer … and as long as you haven’t started any experiments in the kettle.”

“Now, John,” Sherlock’s voice was edged with amused protest. “I only ever did that once. You made it quite clear afterward that the kettle was only to be used for clean, unsalted water for potable beverages. Did I ever make that mistake again?”

“Well, no,” John said, heaving himself to his feet and walking over to the table. “Luckily, considering we practically lived on tea. That lesson, at least, you seem to have learned.”

They stared at each other for a few minutes and John wondered how many changes Sherlock saw in him. When the kettle clicked itself off, John reached over and poured the water into the waiting pot. “The good tea?”

“I try to make every day a special occasion, John,” Sherlock told him with a smile, but his eyes were serious. “And this one _is_.”

John nodded. “It is.”

And as tea-scented steam began to wisp up from the pot, John finally started to feel himself relax.

 

#

 

Sherlock was concerned, watching John. There was nothing overtly wrong, nothing obvious for a casual observer, but to one who knew him well … he’d lost weight and, from the color of his skin, had barely seen the sun in months. That was unlike the John he knew, who went for regular walks. (“ _I need some air!_ ”) He hadn’t been sleeping well, either. Still … physically, mostly, he looked well enough.

It was the emotional toll that worried him. Mycroft had been right (damn it). John had spent too much time being invisible. His skin almost had a transparent look to it which had nothing to do with exposure to sunlight and everything to do with the fact that nobody had seen him—as if his very cells were encouraging people to look away. It was like the print of an old book, fading away in the archives, unseen and unmissed.

The thought was unbearable. John Watson should always be missed. And so Sherlock watched his friend, eyes boring into every inch of him as if he could pull him back into the world by sheer will.

John handed him a cup and Sherlock’s eyes briefly closed as the scent wafted into his nose, reminding him of home in a way no other cup of tea had in the last three months.

“I’m not going to disappear, you know,” John told him after they’d sat down. “There’s no need to stare. I can’t have changed that much. At least my hair is still the same color.”

Sherlock just blinked at the reference to his dyed hair and continued to watch, absorbing every new line, every subtle change—but mostly, just reveling at the sheer, delicious comfort of sitting and drinking tea with John Watson. 

When he didn’t say anything, John just gave a half-smile and leaned back in the chair and sipped his tea, as if he were comfortable with Sherlock’s stare—which nobody else ever was. It was just part of what made John so extraordinary. They sat and sipped in companionable silence for a few (endless, perfect) minutes, but Sherlock saw the lines of strain reappearing on John’s face as his expression began to close in, shut down. “I am sorry, John.”

“What?”

“I said I was sorry, do pay attention, John,” Sherlock said, but without any of his usual snap. “It’s not like the situation is likely to arise again.”

“Christ, I hope not,” John said.

“Indeed. Which makes this a red letter day for you to note in your calendar, because I am actually apologizing, and it does not happen often.” (“Ever,” John said with a mutter.) 

Sherlock leaned forward and put down his cup. “But I _am_ sorry, John. I didn’t give you a chance to explain, and I should have. I didn’t think we had time, though. I didn’t know that Mycroft had moved on the other snipers already, and I certainly didn’t know you’d managed to hide Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson—which is truly remarkable, by the way. Apparently the idiots at the Yard were quite frantic looking for Lestrade before Mycroft’s people showed up. You did the impossible and I didn’t even give you a chance to tell me. I am truly sorry.”

For a long moment, John didn’t move. Then, a small ripple appeared on the surface of his tea as he heaved in a long, deep, cleansing breath. Sherlock braced himself, expecting recriminations to follow, accusations … but all John said was, “Thank you.”

Relieved though he was, Sherlock had expected more emotion than that. Shouting, in fact. Maybe John hadn’t heard him?

He was considering that when John asked, “So … are you back from the dead, then? Done hunting down potential snipers?”

“Not exactly.” John just lifted his eyebrows, so after a moment, Sherlock continued, “I’m here for two reasons, John. The first and most important was you. When Mycroft said he couldn’t find you, that you had literally disappeared … I dropped everything and practically ran all the way from Prague.”

John’s eyes widened slightly, but all he said was, “And the other?”

“You’ve probably already guessed—as long as Moriarty’s network is in place, you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade are still in danger.”

“And that’s what you’ve been doing? Chasing down his network on the sly while everyone thinks you’re dead?”

Sherlock nodded.

“And you didn’t think that wasn’t something I might be able to help with?”

“Of course I did, John, but I needed you to be here to divert attention.”

Another sigh from John as he reached for the teapot and poured fresh tea, gesturing for Sherlock’s cup. He didn’t say anything until they were both leaning back again, drinking. The absurdity of British custom had never been more obvious to Sherlock than at this highly-charged moment when, instead of yelling, his friend was pouring tea.

Finally, John said, “So You just went off gallivanting and left me home like a grieving widow?”

“Hardly a widow, John,” Sherlock said, a taste of asperity in his mouth reminding him he’d forgotten the biscuits. “But if we had both disappeared, there would have been questions. I was relying on you to hold down the fort.”

John pressed his lips together. “So, leaving me behind was your great plan then, Sherlock?”

Ah, there was the anger he’d been expecting. What on earth had Mycroft said to him? “I don’t know what Mycroft told you yesterday, John, but…”

“Yesterday?” John snorted and shook his head. “I’ve known you had a ‘plan’ for months, Sherlock, since before … That is, I knew you and Mycroft were working on something. I didn’t know any of the details—just that there was a plan. Mycroft told me you didn’t trust my acting abilities and, fine, I can accept that. But when did you stop trusting _me_?”

Sherlock was stunned. “John, I _never_ stopped trusting you. Quite the contrary—my plan depended on you.”

“What? The plan that would keep me completely in the dark, left behind and alone, while you went and risked your life day after day without me? That’s a shit plan, Sherlock.”

“I know!” The words burst out of Sherlock, startling both of them. “I know it was, but I didn’t know what Moriarty was planning. All I knew was that he wanted your gift and he thought it was _mine_. I was terrified he was going to kill you, and all I wanted to do was keep you safe. I thought by putting some distance between us, I would. I never realized that faking my death would last so long. I didn’t realize …”

“Didn’t realize what?” John’s voice was calm, but Sherlock was not deceived. It was the same calm that infused John’s voice when he pointed his gun. He was in control, but violence was there, just beneath the surface, ready to explode.

“I didn’t realize how bad a plan it was,” Sherlock said softly. “Especially after your actions on the roof, John.”

“So this is my fault, now?”

“Not at all. But my plan depended on my facing Moriarty alone—nobody would have known what happened.”

John had closed his eyes now and covered them with one hand, as if he’d just heard unbearable news. Then he stood. “Yes, well, I’m sorry I ruined your perfect Plan, Sherlock. Thanks for the tea.”

Wait. No. This was going all wrong, and John was standing now as if he was going to leave.

“That’s not what I meant, John,” Sherlock said, quickly moving between John and the door. “I meant that—I thought I was going to be alone on the roof, but I wasn’t, because you were there. _You_ were. You have no idea … I was terrified you were all going to die, and it was all because of me. But when you spoke to me, and I knew you were there …” 

Sherlock frantically searched his brain for the right words, remembering the relief, desperate to find the ones that would keep John from walking out the door and leaving him alone again. He barely noticed the way John’s weight had shifted back on his heels, or the slightly stunned expression. He just kept talking, letting the words pour from his mouth as fast as he could, anything to keep john from leaving.

“I was so _relieved_ , John. Just having you there made everything better, and then we were winning and Moriarty was losing, but then he shot himself and I realized that you would never be safe, none of us would be safe, as long as Moriarty’s men were still out there.”

He drew in a stuttering breath. “It was why I had to jump. Moriarty was smart. He had layers upon layers of plans, and he said outright that only my jumping would stop the snipers. Don’t you see? There was no way he wouldn’t have contingency plans, second-string assassins waiting in the wings in case the first lot failed. And then third- and fourth-level teams. Even with your gift, nothing would stop all those other killers, and they weren’t even in place yet. I had to jump to buy us the time to take them down—without them knowing we were coming.”

John looked thoughtful, lips pursed as he absorbed this new information. “Okay, I can see that,” he finally said. “So you really did feel you needed to jump.”

“Despite knowing what it would do to you, yes,” Sherlock said. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t afford to let you know that my death had been faked, either. Not right away. Your actions over the first weeks—while the press was watching, while Moriarty’s people were watching—were crucial. If you had looked even the slightest bit relieved, any less shocked or hurt, it would have ruined everything.”

John had sunk back down in the chair now. “Were you planning on telling me?” 

Sherlock nodded. “But, see, that’s where we ran into trouble. Thanks to you and your video, Mycroft had already cleared my name, but that just made some of Moriarty’s people … angry. Especially about his suicide. That made everything … harder. Mycroft increased the security for Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and gave me extra men to help, but … you had disappeared.”

A tiny smile. “You know me. I’ve never liked unnecessary attention, after all.”

“Indeed, but it made it that much more urgent to stop Moriarty’s men. And then, right after the … the funeral, you were gone. You weren’t answering your phone or responding to emails …” Sherlock looked at his friend. “I know you’re good at hiding, John, but this was … worryingly good. Where did you go?”

“An army buddy’s unused flat,” John told him. “He’s still overseas and wasn’t using it. They do get YouTube in Afghanistan, you know, and he wanted to help.” His expression tightened.

Sherlock nodded, mentally filing the data. “Mycroft was frantic—well, for him. You weren’t even reading his messages, much less responding. It drove him mad—which I generally applaud, of course, but which was distressing this time. By then, I needed to leave—the leads I had were growing cold and I couldn’t afford to wait while we tried to hunt you down.”

John’s face was in his hand now and Sherlock watched with concern as his shoulders began to shake. This had all been so much harder on John than he’d expected, and he fought again with the unfamiliar swelling of guilt at having caused such pain to his best friend. Then he realized John was laughing.

“Isn’t that just like us? Moriarty was right about one thing, Sherlock—you do like things complicated!”

Sherlock couldn’t help it. He was chuckling, too, and oh, it felt so _good_.

 

#

 

“So, now what?” John asked once they had caught their breath. 

“Well, you’ve made things more difficult, John,” Sherlock told him. “You were meant to be _noticeably_ here to divert attention, but instead, you effectively disappeared.”

John shrugged. “I’m surprised you didn’t see that coming, frankly, a genius like you. What did you think I was going to do when the press descended and I was left on my own again? Hold a press conference? With my gift? Of _course_ I disappeared.” 

Sherlock blinked as if he hadn’t thought of that at all, and John felt a surge of satisfaction. It was so seldom he was able to catch Sherlock out.

“On the other hand,” John said, “That means that, since nobody knows where I am, anyway, I can come along and help, right?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. I said things were more difficult. Moriarty’s people know he is dead, and they think that I am … but they don’t know about you. So when I started moving against them …”

“They thought it was me,” John finished.

“Yes, because they don’t know where you are, and you’ve got the perfect motive for hunting them. So they’re watching _everything_.”

John leaned his head back against the cushions. Of course. “So you need me to stay here so they’ll relax their guard.”

“Here in plain sight,” Sherlock clarified. “Yes.” 

John closed his eyes, holding back the pain of being left behind again. “For how long?” he finally asked.

“I don’t know. It could be a while.”

There was a long moment while John just sat and breathed. Then, without opening his eyes, he said, “I’m sure Mrs. Hudson’ll be thrilled to hear I’ll be coming back.”

He could hear the relief in Sherlock’s voice when he said, “You got my help with the rent, right?”

“You mean that cheque with all the zeros you left me in your will? Yeah.” Now he looked at Sherlock and smiled. “Why did you need a flatmate, again?”

“Mycroft, of course. He was withholding my trust fund because, well, he’s Mycroft. I really only planned on sharing the flat for a few months at most until I was in his good graces again, but…” Sherlock looked almost sheepish as he glanced at John.

“You couldn’t resist my sterling tea-making abilities,” John suggested.

“Something like that,” Sherlock said. “All I really know is that it’s not the same without you. I really do wish you could come, John.”

“There are always holidays,” John said. “I might get a yen for some travel to ease my loneliness. You’d be amazed at how discreetly I can travel—if you ever thought you wanted some back-up.”

“I’d like that.”

It was quiet for a minute as the two friends sat in the sun-filled window, just enjoying each other’s company. 

“When do you need to go back?” John asked after a time.

“Tomorrow.”

John heaved another long, deep breath. “Right. Well, I’ll make some more tea, and then you can tell me how you survived that jump, yeah? Don’t leave anything out.”

“If you tell me how on earth you affected that video. I had no idea you could do that.”

John frowned. “Mycroft said something about that, too, but I think it’s just that the video _is_ compelling.”

“You tried though, didn’t you?” Sherlock’s eyes were sharp. “You wanted people to believe in me.”

“I might have thought something like that when I started recording, but it’s ludicrous. My gift only affects people, Sherlock. I can’t affect a recording. It’s absurd.”

“Maybe so, but I watched that video and couldn’t tear my eyes away—and believe me, I wanted to,” Sherlock told him. “You could make a fortune in Hollywood with that gift, Dr. Watson.”

John laughed. “I don’t think I could bring myself to care that much about a film. Luckily, I inherited your trust fund, so I really don’t need any more money at the moment. Thanks for that, by the way. I hope you’re not expecting me to give it back.”

“Well, really, John, who else would I leave it to?”

 

#

 

The two friends talked for hours. They had Chinese delivered at some point and brewed dozens of pots of tea. It wasn’t until late that night that their fatigue and the long, stressful months finally caught up with both of them. 

John woke the next morning on the surprisingly comfortable office couch, covered in an orange shock blanket of all things. He blinked at the table and saw the tea service thoughtfully laid out, ready to go, along with a bag of cinnamon rolls from his favorite bakery.

And a note.

“ _Until soon, John._ ”

He just smiled at the sun-drenched table and then stretched, feeling rested and more like himself than he had in three months. Turning the kettle on, he reached for his phone, powering it up for the first time in weeks.

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson? I was hoping you still had my room available.”

 

##

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s it for this series—at least until S3 begins. Thanks so much for reading and commenting! (Especially the commenting.)


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